


One, oh One...

by SidheKatSoup



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Anxiety, Beta Wanted, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Ghouls, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shenanigans, Slow Burn, Smut, Swearing, adorkable LW, awkward doofy teenager, coming to terms with feelings, ghoul lovin's, seriously these kids need some fiber, so much swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5367983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidheKatSoup/pseuds/SidheKatSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd been out for months now, she should be used to the day-to-day grind.  Shoot first you live, shoot second you die.  Scavenge off the corpses.  Sell the looted things.  Try to find information on her father.  Repeat.  Maybe a companion is exactly what she needs to break up the monotony of murder and mayhem.  Updating again!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mysterious Stranger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You human?” The question startled her a bit.
> 
> “Yeah?” She asked in return, unsure if it would get her shot on sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited and re-posted 8/17/16 Enjoy it darlings! Let's hope we smoothed some things out a bit!

 

**Hello Hello Hello Beautiful Stranger**

 

An unfortunate fact about the Capital Wasteland was that things hardly ever seemed to change. The sun came up, Raiders started shooting, mutants started shooting, slavers started slaving. The sun went down, all manner beasty appeared looking to scavenge an easy meal. The sun came up. The sun went down.

In truth it wasn't so very different from the Vault. A muffled laugh sounded behind layers of dusty cloth at the thought. _The lights come on, people start shooting off their mouths instead of guns._ The young woman leaned against a blown out window frame, her figure shrouded by layers of clothing and cloth, covering every inch of skin. Even her hair was bundled under wraps and a floppy hat, rendering her as nondescript as possible.

She'd made camp (really no more than a tattered blanket wedged into a corner for comfort and warmth) along the outskirts of the DC ruins, in sight of her goal, and the trenches full of super mutants between her and it.

(“If you find yourself in DC look for Underworld. Say hi to Carol for me.” “Sure thing Gob. Anything for you.”)

She could see it, or what she thought passed as the fabled ghoul city anyways. A woman stood out front, smoke curling around her as the Brotherhood of Steel took pot-shots at her stationary form. Geez those guys couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. The young woman grumbled softly and pulled her hunting rifle from her shoulder, leveling it at the group of soldiers in tin cans.

She took her time, a deep breath through her nose, released it and fired. The bullet pinged loudly off a cement blockade, some ten feet from the nearest soldier, but sent them scrambling away from the woman, who looked to be laughing her ass off now.

Well, now or never. She bundled up her belongings, slung her rifle over her shoulder and trotted from her hiding spot, picking her path carefully along the way towards Underworld (she hoped). She kept close to the buildings, and as far away from corners as humanly possible. Just because she couldn't see (or hear for that matter) any of the giant green brutes, didn't mean they couldn't spring up out of nowhere and ambush the hell out of her.

Lesson learned, thank you very much.

“Hold it tourist.” A gravelly voice rose and stopped her dead in her tracks. She lifted her hands immediately and turned towards the woman (no, ghoul...no...woman...) the BoS had been shooting at earlier. “You lost friend?” She asked, a cigarette pinched between her lips, gun trained at the young woman's head. She just shook her head, hands still in the air.

“I'm looking for Underworld.” She muttered softly, and though her voice was quiet it easily carried across the still air.

The ghoul snorted at her and jerked her thumb behind her, towards the banners and signs proclaiming the former Museum was, in fact, Underworld. Behind tinted goggles the girl rolled her eyes and let her hands fall to her side. Of course it had signs. What place didn't? Brilliant.

“You human?” The question startled her a bit.

“Yeah?” She asked in return, unsure if it would get her shot on sight. But from what she'd seen earlier she didn't imagine she was in _too_ much danger (no more than being alive in the wasteland put one in at least). A scoff was her reply and the ghoulette shook her head slowly.

“Might want to lose a few layers tourist. People are gonna think you're up to no good.” And that, that made the young woman laughed, a soft clear sound. Of all the things to mark her for nefarious reasons, her protection was it. Figures.

“Would that I could. The sun would fry me in a heartbeat.” She explained and watched the guard's gun finally lower. Her lips quirked into a lazy smile and she shook her head again.

“Alright smoothskin. My name's Willow, tell 'em I said you seem alright. Don't make me a liar. Just go straight in and through the giant skull. Can't miss it.” Willow jerked her thumb over her shoulder again and the girl smiled, though it couldn't be seen.

The ghoulette hadn't been kidding when she'd said “giant skull”, the thing really was monstrous, and surprisingly fitting, next to the skeleton of some long dead thing (a “dinosaur” her texts books had said, fat lot of good that knowledge did for anyone now), and a furry monstrosity. And people thought irradiated creatures today were weird.

She paused to read the plaques, but mostly to steel herself against opening those doors. She wasn't any more afraid of the ghouls than she was regular humans, a lack of skin didn't make you any nicer or meaner than the next person. Her first real friend out here had been a ghoul, but prejudice beget prejudice and she was still human.

Now or never.

She stepped into Underworld covered from head to toe in her tattered clothing and looking like one of the exhibits come to life. Ghouls gave her a wide berth, shuffling away quietly when goggled eyes turned towards them. She forgot the image she projected a lot of the time, being far more concerned with her skin not blistering to hell.

Still, after about the fifth odd look she caught on and quickly began to divest herself of some of her layers. The sight revealed was no less strange than the one she covered. Remarkably pale skin was dotted by vaguely darker freckles across her cheeks and a broader nose. Her lips were full and rose petal pink, and her hair was a tangled halo of platinum strands that escaped her thick braid to curl around her face and shoulders.

She crammed her gear into her packs and took a moment to appreciate air that was (stale and old, still) not moist with her breath and drawn through old, slightly moldy cloth. It was so good to be inside and not being baked by the sun.

When one of the ghouls finally worked up the nerve to approach her he did it with a whoop and a holler, immediately catching her attention. Eyes that seemed black as pitch slid over to his face, but the tilt of her lips (and the soft roundness of her features) lent a sweetness to her that couldn't be shaken.

“Hoo-ee! We ain't had a smoothskin in here in years!” He laughed and the girl (heavens, she was so pale) smiled fully on him, nearly stopping him short. She was strangely pretty for a human covered in grime and swaddled in tatters from head to heel. (Yet she seemed so _clean_ for a wastelander. Maybe from the Citadel? Rivet City had running water, right?)

“I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by. Willow said I seemed nice enough.” She said and moved over to him, the hunting rifle slung over her shoulder bumped her arm lightly. “What's a smoothskin? I've heard that term before.” She asked after her second's pause and he stifled a laugh into his fist.

“'S what we ghouls call you humans. Y'know, 'cause your skin is so smooth...and tasty.” He dared to tease, and her brow quirked slightly.

“Might wanna look elsewhere, friend, I'm wasteland trash. All tough and gamy. No meat.” She shot back quickly, which startled a laugh out of him and he slapped his knee. It could have been a blatant lie for all he knew, she looked as shapeless as the next person.

“You _are_ alright smoothskin. Name's Winthrop, I keep this place running -mostly. What can I do ya for?” He stuck his hand out towards her, pleasantly surprised when she took his hand in a firm grip, shaking it once.

“Rory.” She said. “I'm a tourist, thought maybe a I'd come check out this city of ghouls I'd heard so much about. Maybe I can get a good trade out of you guys instead of getting stiffed by everyone else.” Her humor was dry and razor sharp as she spoke. Winthrop shook his head at that last bit and she cracked her most charming smile yet. He barked out a laugh before finally speaking.

“Maybe, smoothskin, maybe. You wanna talk to Tulip. She collects junk, useful junk, but junk it is. Carol's place is upstairs on the right, beds, food, the like. Ninth Circle on the left, though I'd avoid it were I you. Unsavory types there.” He muttered the last part and her eyes took on a soft edge as she reached out to pat his arm reassuringly. That was the second time she'd touched him willingly. It took all types, but he'd never met one before. It was refreshing in a way.

“Thanks Win.” She called over her shoulder as she sauntered off with a rolling gait, having moved away while he was lost in thought. Strange girl, very strange indeed. He shook his head and wandered away.

Tulip's was easy to find, and Rory smiled at her honest eagerness. They talked of the museum, the citizens in it, what inspired it, until Rory was fairly certain they'd whiled away at least an hour and she'd obtained a rare new book to devour while she was here. _Paradise Lost_ , how appropriate.

“Tulip, my dear, would you care to do business with me?” The blonde proposed, hands over her heart, making the ghoulette stifle a snicker and flutter what was left of her lashes.

“Why, I'd be delighted.” Their joined laughter floated from her shop and turned many a curious head as the two women bartered and haggled until finally Rory's pack was a good deal lighter, and her caps bag was a good bit heavier.

“Oh, before you go! Winthrop might be able to work a deal for all that scrap metal you've got. I hear him muttering a lot.” Tulip offered with a soft smile and Rory nodded before saluting and wandering off once more. So far, she liked this city of ghouls, felt more at home here than being leered at in Megaton by ex-raiders and junkies. (She'd given Jericho more than his fair share of black eyes at this point, and while Billy was nice, personal space was not a concept he prescribed to.)

Rory made her way upstairs, after a quick detour and dropping off all the metal she had on her person (about fifteen pounds of it, she _might_ have had a small issue with hoarding things) with Winthrop for a handful of stims, and veered right first. She pushed open the door quietly and jumped nearly a foot in the air when a voice almost cut through her.

“Yeah, what is it-! Oh!” Rory's head snapped to a woman behind a counter. She'd obviously been leaning heavily on it by how her hands were braced and Rory offered a tentative smile and the smallest wave. “Someone new! I'm so sorry, you must think me terribly rude! Welcome! Welcome to Carol's Place! I'm Carol.” The woman bustled straightening herself up and brushing imaginary dust from her clothes. She put on a winning smile and Rory crept closer slightly.

“What can I help you with honey?” She asked sweetly as the human slid up to the counter.

“You're Carol?” She asked softly, dark eyes wide and searching. Carol shifted uneasily behind the counter.

“Yes? Why?” The girl's face split into a grin.

“Do you know someone named Gob? He asked me to look if I ever came here.” She explained gently, a warm smile coming over her face. Carol's eyes immediately welled with tears as her hands fluttered around her mouth.

“Oh, you've met my Gob? He's my son! Well not really, not like you'd think of as a son. We don't work like that, but I'm rambling! How is he? Is he alright? What's he doing?” She peppered the stranger with questions, and the girl merely smiled and waited for her to finish.

“He's fine. Owns his own Saloon out in Megaton! Nice place, he keeps it clean and running smoothly. Got a girlfriend too, last I checked.” Rory laughed with a wink and Carol only smiled brighter, waving away tears. She bombarded the girl with more questions, and in turn answered any thrown her way. Rory was enraptured as Carol spoke, images dancing behind her eyes as she painted pictures of the old world before the war. Sadness danced behind her eyes at times, and Rory felt a small twinge of guilt at bringing up anything painful. Still, on she went, and Rory felt the least she could do was give her undivided attention (not that it was difficult by any stretch).

“And you said you weren't interesting!” Rory grinned like a cat and Carol felt her face grow warm, glad for her lack of skin.

“Try telling the same stories for two hundred years.” She muttered dourly. “You'll feel pretty uninteresting too.” Rory waved away her concern with a flick of her wrist and a sweet smile.

“I will gladly be an attentive audience any time.” The girl promised and Carol chuckled and patted her hand. “For now, though, could I trouble you for a room? Maybe a meal and a drink?” The ghoul immediately snapped to hostess attention, and moved about the room in a rustle of skirts and petticoats. She showed Rory to a screened off room, muttered apologies that were waved away as well and granted a dazzling smile.

“We've got hot food, home-made. But the only booze you'll find is next door.” Carol jerked her thumb as she spoke, a dark scowl furrowing her brow as she did. Rory raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment, merely gave her thanks and dropped her stuff on the bed. She slowly unwound herself from the miles of extra clothing, piling it on her bed to wash later when she had a chance. She quickly changed into one of her prettier dresses (a frivolous thing she'd found in a mostly still intact house, the flowers embroidered along the hem were her favorite) and slipped a leather coat over top of that. No use being entirely unprotected even somewhere "safe".

She devoured a quick meal in peace (the novelty of this place was not wearing off quickly, for which she was eternally grateful) before waving and fluttering out the door to Ninth Circle. Her curiosity was a powerful force of nature, and she wasn't about to deny it anything. Even if it meant sketchy subjects and possible danger, that just made it all the worse for her to try and deny.

The blast of stale air to the face made her suddenly realize why Carol disliked this place so. Smoke hung heavy around her, along with the smell of unwashed bodies and alcohol. She hummed softly under her breath and scanned the room. A greasy looking ghoul stood behind a filthy looking bar and it took her considerable willpower not to curl her lip in distaste. But she was tired, aching, and the lure of alcohol and a smoke was too much to pass up currently (damn her bad habits, she'd been so good in the Vault). Subtle movement caught her eye and she nearly leapt out of her skin. She felt the stare before she could really make out the face in the darkness. He didn't stand out, not at first, shrouded in shadows with dark armor and a black shotgun slung across his back like it was a part of him. Rory eyed him silently for a moment before his gaze slid over her and she ice raced down her spine.

Her skin pricked uncomfortably and her cheeks immediately darkened as she was unable to tear her gaze away from the milky blue of his eyes. He looked made of stone as he stood there, unmoving, unblinking, but every muscle coiled and ready to tear her to pieces should she prove unruly. She did _not_ want to appear unruly at all. Small and innocent, that was her.

That was not a normal bodyguard.

She wrenched her gaze away from his and slid over to the bar and slapped some caps down for a Rum and Nuka. The greasy, slimy ghoul sneered a smile at her and slid the drink to her, and she was careful not to touch this one. Her lips curled back from her teeth in the semblance of a smile, and she slid away to a quiet corner to disassemble her rifle and clean it's parts. (She'd learned about a month out that not maintaining her weapon meant death in the Wastes. She sure missed that pistol sometimes...) She lit a cigarette, which she pinched between her lips, and began to disassemble her hunting rifle with practice fingers, cleaning each part with almost a loving touch.

She felt eyes on her and took a sip of her drink to cover her glance. The ghoul in the corner watched her like a hawk. She quirked an eyebrow at him, feeling a bit loose from the burn of the alcohol, and lowered her drink. Her lips curled into an actual smile and his own eyebrow rose marginally. With a wink she turned her eyes back to her task, but always kept half her attention trained on him.

(She's met interesting people near constantly since leaving her (the) vault. Vampires that seemed bad but turned out decent, cannibals that seemed decent (okay not really at all, but they faked nice real well) and turned out awful. She'd met a super mutant who'd shared his meal with her, and even offered a roof over her head for the night while they discussed philosophy and the merits of peace. But this, well this was another level of interesting for her.)

She heard the huff of his breath and his armor scrape the wall as he shifted in his spot. She grinned to herself, not bothering to pay attention to her gun as she allowed muscle memory take over once more to reassemble the thing. While the gun might have been her baby, she had done this every night for months. She knew her gun inside and out, and when she finally slid the bolt back in place, it made a satisfying thunk and she slung it over her shoulder again. Rory stood then, swayed only slightly, downed the rest of her drink and sauntered from the bar, cheeks flushed and smiling coyly as she passed the bouncer.

Once outside though, she scurried to her room and all but dove behind the screens. She stripped her clothes off quickly, toed off her boots and scrambled into bed, stifling giggles into her pillow. She didn't flirt, she never flirted, she was terrible at it! Even in the vault she'd never indulged after things went south with Paul at the tender age of eleven, and Freddie broke her fragile heart at fifteen.

No, she was not one for shamelessness in such forms, but it had felt strangely good to get some sort of reaction out of the stoic man. Especially after the reaction he'd garnered from her, without doing anything at all.

She rummaged around in her pack to pull out the book Tulip had given her and flopped over on her stomach, propping it open on the pillows in front of her. Her eyes glittered as they slid over the words, her fingers caressed the corners of the pages gently as she turned each page with reverence. Eventually though, the alcohol caught up with her, and her eyes drooped, her head bobbed, and she passed out cradling the book in one hand.


	2. Bloody Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At least she'd made it this far. By herself. Entirely alone.
> 
> “I want his contract.”

**Savior**

 

The morning came early with her Pipboy shoved under her pillows and the alarm muffled in her ear. With a groan she pushed herself up and ran her fingers through wild hair. She could never tame it, had stopped trying years ago when she had the products to work with. Now it just curled around her head in a constant halo of platinum tangles. She would hate it, but it was her mothers hair, the only part she and her father had left. He'd doted on her curls as a child, praising her looks and basking in the one remaining piece of his wife. Rory had never even seen a picture of the woman, all she knew was the ache in her chest that never quite went away, and the sorrow that lurked behind her father's eyes when he'd watch her sometimes.

Wrestling those particular thoughts from her mind, she managed to wrangle her curls into a braid to keep some of it out of her eyes. She'd worry about coiling it around her head later, when she managed to convince herself to leave. ( _If_ she managed to convince herself to leave. No, she had to find her father, she had to, that was her whole purpose out here. Never mind she'd almost been murdered by her best friend's father. No, never mind that at all.)

She stood up and stretched, back popping and joints creaking as she let out a groan of sweet agony. She needed to get going today if she was going to get anything done. Or at least try. She hadn't been successful in any of her endeavors to find her missing father, and she was beginning to suspect that bastard Moriarty had sent her on a wild goose chase. GNR, he'd said, GNR smack in the middle of mutant infested DC and she was all but fresh from the vaults. Bastard. _Slimy, double-crossing, two-timing sonofabitch._

At least she'd made it this far. By herself. Entirely alone.

She crumpled in on herself for a moment, spine bowing and the heels of her hands pressed into her eyes to try and stem the well of tears that burned in her nose. It was all too much. She'd been out for months now, she should be used to the day-to-day grind. Shoot first you live, shoot second you die. Scavenge off the corpses. Sell the looted things. _Try_ to find information on her father. Repeat.

Her throat tightened, threatened to choke her on the tears she still wouldn't shed. Oh god, how was she going to-

"Nope. No. I've made it this far. I'm fine." She murmured to herself and stood from the cot. She straightened her spine, wiped her eyes (just in case an errant tear escaped) and drew a deep, steady breath. She could do this. Act now, panic later, as he father always said.

She packed all her belongings and glared at her bag, not ready and unwilling to shoulder it just yet as she slipped out of her sectioned off little area and into the hotel proper. She greeted Carol with a smile and a wave and praised her dinner last night, hoping to butter up her hostess for more amazing, and slightly cheaper, food. Greta, Carol's partner, merely sneered at her from behind the counter, and Rory couldn't bring herself to care as a steaming bowl of soup was placed in front of her, and Carol patted her shoulder with a fond smile.

As she ate she thought, something she found she didn't have as much time for as she liked. She'd had strange dreams the previous night, and her thoughts of solitude this morning weren't helping anything. She couldn't deny the benefit of having someone watch her back, the thought of not being entirely alone, not having to shoulder the weight of everything by herself was tempting. Especially if she were only going _deeper_ into DC proper. She winced at the scars she knew she had now (pale silvery lines from knives that were a little too fast, and bullets that were a little too slow) and mulled over the thought more. Maybe the bouncer wanted to quit, see the world (maybe see it again as he's a ghoul and she had no idea how old he was). If nothing else he looked scary beyond all reason, maybe that would be enough to deter most blood-thirsty Raiders.

“Carol?” She asked, lifting her head from her food, brows furrowed slightly. “What's the name of the ghoul in Ninth Circle? The big guy in the corner?” She hurried to specify the last part, nearly biting her cheek at her almost offensive statement. Of course he was a ghoul, ghoul city! Bad Rory. But Carol only smiled, though there was a tightness around her eyes.

“Charon. He's Azruhkal's, uhm, well he's his...” She fumbled.

“His _pet_. Azruhkal holds his contract.” Greta snapped, finishing the thought with a frown. Rory felt her brows draw further together. “Az says 'jump', Charon doesn't even ask how high, he just does it. Az says 'dump that guy on his ass', Charon throws him over the balcony.” She scrubbed furiously at a table, her lips drawn into a fierce scowl. “It isn't right or fair. Az is an ass, but he's the worst to Charon.” She added quietly.

So he was a slave, no wonder he looked so surly and miserable. She chewed her lip thoughtfully and stared at her bag. She had a fair amount of caps, especially after trading with Tulip the other day, at least 2000 easy. She should have enough to buy a slave and set him free. Though the last time she'd tried to free a slave hadn't gone quite to plan, she still had hope.

("Sorry little girl, his price has gone up again. Room and board y'see. Plus he's a damn bottomless pit to feed." Moriarty had jeered, stale, booze-soaked breath washing over her face and making her gag.

"Alright, _fine_ , we'll do this the hard way." She'd snarled and he'd laughed her out of the bar. He wasn't laughing the next day, or any after that. She'd made damn sure of it.)

Rory stood quickly and threw down more than enough for a meal. “Thanks ladies. I'll be back to get my stuff in a minute.” And with that she whisked out of the room and practically ran to Ninth Circle. She stopped when she hit the door though, and took a moment to collect herself before striding through. Good impressions and all that.

Charon, she now knew, hadn't moved. His back was still rigid, his arms folded, and a foot kicked up against the wall. She wondered if he'd slept at all, or had eaten anything. She caught his gaze momentarily and offered a vague curl of her lips at his quirked eyebrow. She made her way over to him and he finally turned his head towards her.

“Hi handsome, I was wondering-”

“Talk to Ahzrukhal.” He cut her off with a growl and she blinked up at him. Suddenly she blushed down to her toes, thinking he'd misunderstood he intention.

“What? Oh, no, not like that, I'm not, that's- look are you for-”

“Talk. To. Ahzrukhal.”

She gaped like a fish, cheeks red and eyes searching his face. Okay, she blew that, but she turned away and waited for that derelict ghoul she could only assume was Ahzrukhal to make his appearance. She pulled a cigarette from her jacket and lit it to give herself something to do other than fidget with her hands. She watched the way the smoke curled around her fingers while she waited. She wanted to glance at Charon, wanted to say something, but her pride (wounded and small though it was) wouldn't let her. She'd figure all of this out, sort it out and make it right. That's what she did, she made things better. Apparently.

Fortunately it didn't take long for the ghoul in question to appear in front of her. She put on her best “cool” face, one Amata had told her was "scary as hell" more than once, and eyed him silently. She wasn't intimidating, not at all, she knew this, with soft features and her pale skin, but she could pull off ethereal and other-worldly like no one else. She banked on putting him on edge at least long enough to rob him blind.

“Good morning beautiful.” He rasped, eyes raking over her face quickly and she was suddenly glad for her big, bulky, figure-hiding armor. She'd never been thin, never would be, but sometimes oh she wished she was. At least then she'd be less womanly and wouldn't stick out quite so much. Her hips alone could kill a man, or so Butch had admitted one night in his haze of drunken honesty. She'd been strangely flattered at the time.

“I want his contract.” Rory replied, nodding her head slightly towards Charon. If this guy was as bad as Greta seemed to think, which seemed pretty bad to her, she wanted to spend as little time speaking to him as possible. She wasn't a beacon of morality by any stretch, but she liked to think she was a somewhat decent person in the hellish world.

“Oh do you now?” He asked, not missing a beat. He'd struck her as the business type, the sleazy, corner-cutting business type. She could work with that.

“Yes. Let's skip formalities, I don't have much time, how much for you to part with it?” She rolled the cigarette between her fingers, letting the thin line of smoke curl between them, blurring her outline until she was merely a set of dark eyes staring at him. She watched his eyes try to focus for a moment and she gave a vague smile.

Ahzrukhal didn't even think before he spoke. “2000 caps.” He smiled that awful smile and Rory raised an eyebrow. So that was the game then. He was going to try and scare her away by dropping a huge number (well Mr. Sleeze Bag, she was not so easily frightened).

“Not even prized slaves go for more than 500. And that's all he is, right?” She dropped her voice an octave, but she felt that hard stare on her back anyways. Ice slide down her spine once more, froze her nerves and coiled in her gut tight enough to make her sick. She didn't turn, couldn't break her character. She knew the part she had to play, and it didn't involve pleading glances for him to understand her.

“Slave? Madam you wound me.” He began, but she held up her hand. She didn't want to hear whatever validation he'd come up with over the years. She knew what a slave was, and no matter how someone dressed it up, the insides were still the same.

“500.” She said firmly, but he only laughed.

“Please. Charon is my most valuable commodity, unfailingly loyal to whoever holds his contract. You can see why I'm so unwilling to part with it. But...if you add in an extra favor?” He leaned against the bar and invaded her space. Her lip curled back over her teeth once more, but she tried to make it a smile. “Kill Greta, and _that's_ a deal.” Shock tore through her, but she narrowed her eyes and took a drag before she let that show, gave her something else to do. She blew the smoke in his face and smiled when he frowned and leaned back.

“Extortion. 1000.” She countered quickly, making a note to tell Greta of the plot against her as soon as she was out of here. The blood on her hands was filthy, and already it couldn't be scrubbed off. She didn't even want to imagine what innocent blood would look, or feel, like.

“Hardly comparable.” He sneered and she lifted an eyebrow at him. He was good, she'd give him that, stubborn, stuck to his guns. But she was better, by far. (Talking down bullies was a forte of hers, a skill she'd perfected since single digits. She'd only gotten better since leaving her (the) vault.)

“Hardly? Twice what you'd get for a good slave. Where else are you going to get an offer like that? It's not every day you get a pretty smoothskin in here willing to drop that kind of money. C'mon, it's a good deal.” She wheedled and stuck out her hand. He stared at her a moment, over her shoulder, then back to her. She flashed her most dazzling smile, donned a look the Devil himself would be proud of, and waited with the patience of a Saint.

“Fine. Deal.” He snapped and shook her hand. She waited only long enough for the piece of paper to touch her hand (and her caps to pass to him) before she launched off the stool and all but danced to her new partner. She was beaming up at him, the hard-eyed woman from earlier gone in a flash of green eyes and pink cheeks.

“Good news!” She chirped as he pushed off the wall and wow, he really was tall. She was short, no two ways about it, had always been would always be, but Charon towered over her even more than most. Her insides churned but she'd made a deal, even if part of it was in her head. “I'm your new boss! Ready to go?”

He gazed down at her silently, eyes flicking to the piece of paper she held in her hands briefly before back to her face. “You are my new employer?” He asked in that same growling voice, and her insides churned for an entirely different reason she wasn't going to acknowledge right now. Or ever.

“Yep! Grab what you got, let's blow this Popsicle stand!” She was giddy now, practically vibrating with her joy, but he merely nodded his head.

“That is good to know. Please, give me a moment.” And with that he strode past her. She turned to watch him go, and marveled at the rolling gait he had. The fact that she could actually watch his muscles shift as he moved only fascinated her more. He was built like a brick house. It was a damn shame she probably wasn't going to be able to convince him to stay with her after all was said and done. Oh well, win some, lose some.

The shotgun blast tore through her musings as she watched Ahzrukhal's brains splattered against the wall. She yelped loudly when another shell was spent in his torso, riddling him full of holes. Rory stood there with her mouth gaping, hands pressed against her lips and eyes wide when he strode back up to her, blood flecked across his face and body.

“What the fuck was that?!” She yelped again and looked up at her now even scarier partner.

“He was an evil bastard. But while my contract was in his possession, I was compelled not to lay a finger on him. When it passed to you, I was released from his service, and able to rid the world of that disgusting rat. Now, for good or ill, I follow you.” Her eyes flicked over his face, entirely impassive save for the small light in his eyes, fiercely bright and burning. “Are you ready to go?” He asked and she snapped her mouth shut.

“Well, shit.” She muttered before trotting over to the body and patting it down. She fished out her caps, flicked a bit of something squishy off the bag, and rifled through his pockets for anything else useful. Standing up she brushed her fingers off on her clothes and made her way over to the door. “You got everything?” She asked, and he merely looked at her.

“Everything is on my person.” He replied after a moment and she looked him over. Ratty armor, old and torn clothes, boots with holes. That wouldn't do at all, not on her watch.

“Off to Tulip's!” She cried and swung open the door, her new shadow following along behind her. It unnerved her greatly, her spine shivered at the sensation of having someone so close, still, it wasn't the worst. She chanced a look over her shoulder, no definitely wasn't the worst.

The ghoulette seemed to pale upon seeing Charon, her eyes widening, but Rory's smile almost put her at ease. Almost. The two chatted amicably as Rory fluttered about her partner and tried to take his measurements without anything to measure by. Tulip was a miracle worker with what she had in stock, and the two women were able to put together a much nicer, almost brand new, set of armor for the imposing ghoul.

“What about your shotgun?” Rory asked and pointed to the weapon in question and he growled at her once more.

“Do not touch it.” He warned and she held up her hands in surrender.

“Okay, well how about I get some parts for that too and you can fix it up yourself?” She offered, and his brows rose slightly.

“That is...acceptable.” He said with a nod and the smile she graced him with was blinding.

“Perfect!” She chirped and gathered the rest of what he needed. What _he_ needed. So far she was shaping up to be a decent, if odd employer. He watched as she gathered her stuff in record time, her skin vanishing beneath layers upon layers, bid farewell to everyone she'd befriended in her day and a half stint, and waltzed out the door, Charon in tow.

When she got outside she immediately turned to him, and he stopped sharply so as not to stumble into her. She shoved his contract at him and he merely stared down at it.

“Alright, here ya go. I only bought this to free you.” She said and pulled down her face wrap to smile at him with that stupidly happy grin and he could only blink dumbly at her. She waved the contract at him. “C'mon, take it. You're your own boss now. I'd just heard...well, I'm not in the habit to not help where I can.” Her shoulders sagged a bit, and he watched the wind lift her hair slightly to curl around her face until she brushed it away. She'd been willing to pay money for him, sure, but then she'd turned around and given him new equipment, new tools. Now she was shoving his contract into his chest. Strange human indeed.

“I cannot take it.” He finally managed to say, and her arm dropped to her side.

“You- of course you can! Just reach out and wrap your fingers around it! Tada!” She said and waved the paper again. He fought down the curve of his lips. She was naive, it showed, but she tried and that was more than anyone had done for him in fifty years.

“I cannot take my own contract. It must belong to another.” He explained and she groaned loudly, throwing herself onto the concrete divide so she could glare at the contract. He failed at hiding his smirk the second time around.

“Of course! My one good deed of the day and it bites me in the ass! Not that I mind the company, on the contrary, but damnit! I don't want to own a person!” She flopped back farther and he let his eyes flick over her form. Despite her armor and clothing, he could tell she was soft and rounded in ways that people just weren't anymore. Obviously she'd lead a somewhat pampered life.

"I am not a slave." He corrected her and her eyes flew to his face. Wide and dark, and in the light he could see the green that flecked those fathomless depths.

"Sorry! I'm sorry. I don't...really know what else to call...it." She fumbled and he closed his eyes to keep from rolling them. Painfully naive.

"You are my employer. I am bound by your will and will do as you command of me." He explained and she hummed softly, absorbing his words.

“Alright then big guy, so how does this work, exactly?” She asked, staring at the paper and trying to make sense of the long faded words there. He knew what each one was, each letter seared into his brain decades ago, centuries at this point.

“I am your guardian. My prime directive is to keep you safe in and outside of combat. You have access to any knowledge I have, and any combat skills I possess. You may order me to do any number of things, so long as they do not contradict with my prime directive, or lead to physical harm on my part. Physical harm of any sort, against your person or mine, invalidates the contract. I am not allowed to own anything, or receive any type of monetary compensation, though you may give me any gear you see fit for me to have.” He recited from memory, countless times he'd explained his purpose, to countless employers, slavers, _owners_. He had little faith she'd be different, even if she had surprised him so far.

Her brow furrowed slightly, and she sucked her lip between her teeth to worry it a bit. “Okay, uhm, well. Can...can I give standing orders?” She asked, shuffling her feet on the ground and staring at the paper still.

He nodded slowly, and uttered a quiet “Yes.” Standing orders never turned out well and he braced himself for whatever she was about to hit him with. She mimicked his small nod before looking up at him. Her lashes made her eyes seem impossibly wide and for a moment he was drowning.

“Okay, well, then as a standing, and only order, you are free to do as you like in any given situation. If you wish to accompany me, I'd welcome the company, be grateful for it actually. If you want to wander the wastes and shoot guys in the face, go for it. I'll listen for you on the news.” She smiled warmly up at him, and tucked the little piece of paper into her pocket. She reached out and patted his arm gently. He gaped, or as much as could be considered for him. She had almost given him freedom, as much as she was capable at least. A standing order like that. He faltered slightly. He didn't remember freedom, didn't remember what it felt like, tasted like. He wasn't sure if he could follow that order...but then he'd done errands for Ahzrukhal before, had been on his own, and while he had a direction, he'd been able to choose as he wished while alone.

Perhaps, perhaps this could be something like that. He could keep his employer close, keep her safe, but maybe she'd actually let him do as he would. He found the idea not entirely unappealing.

“I would accompany you, if you'd have me.” He said after several tense moments of her chewing away at her bottom lip until it was pink and swollen. Her face split into a grin again and she whooped, throwing herself at his torso and squeezing briefly before she jerked away again.

“Perfect! Yes! Great! I was hoping you'd say that!” She wiggled in a happy little circle that was really more cute than anything before she faced him again. “What do you say about Museum of Tech? That's my first stop after here. Sound fun?” She asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she spoke. He allowed a small smile to turn the very corners of his lips upwards while he watched her.

“Yes, that is good. Mind if I put on the armor you bought for me first?” He asked and she immediately flushed red and twirled around at break-neck speeds, her hands flying to cover her face.

“Oh my gosh I'm so sorry! I totally forgot in the wake of the bloody mess and trying to get you fitted and I am so sorry. Yes, of course you can. Oh geez...” She rushed out all in one breath and he huffed, the closest to a laugh he'd had in years. So many firsts, he wasn't ready for all this.

Fortunately donning armor was routine, something safe and known. It was only the outer layers, he wasn't about to strip in public, and he marveled at the snug fit of everything. She'd dropped about as much money as she'd been willing to spend on him on his gear. He would have been impressed if she'd simply found something that fit him, but she'd done better. A strange tug in his chest made him pause, examining it with a sharp eye.

Gratitude. That was new.

He cleared his throat when he was done and she turned again, a smile lighting up her face when she saw him. Closing the distance between them she tugged lightly on his armor to make sure the pieces fit. He simply watched her quietly as she patted his chest piece with a satisfied smile.

“Perfect! Tulip really did a good job finding the right pieces.” She took a step back and looked up, and up, finally reaching his gaze with her own. They were quiet for only a moment before a new voice cut through the revere.

“Well Tourist, stealing off with one of our own?” Willow barked out with a laugh, making Rory spin on her heel towards the ghoulette. She snorted and grinned.

“You know it!” She teased back as Willow clapped her on the shoulder briefly. She glanced up at Charon, impassive as always, save for the fierce light deep in his gaze.

“You take good care of this one, yeah?” She continued and Rory hummed softly, smiling that gentle smile.

“No intention to do otherwise.” She said, and it sounded strangely like a promise. Charon turned towards her slightly before she grinned at Willow. “Gotta go, we're burning daylight. See you around Willow.”

“Take care smoothskin.”

Fortunately the Museum of Technology wasn't far from their starting point. Just a couple trenches to their destination, and she proved to be quick and nearly silent, which was impressive in it's own right. He has to stop her before she reaches the doors and just swings them open, pressing a hand to her shoulder that had her turning towards him, her face hidden by her mask.

“I should go first, and clear the floor of any threats to you.” He said lowly and her head canted to the side.

“You want to go alone? What if there are mutants inside?” Comes her muffled voice.

“Your safety is my primary objective.” Came his instant reply and he didn't have to see her face to sense the frown she leveled at him.

“Well then, we'd better figure something out, because I'm not letting you go alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to just delete previous chapters entirely so people could get notices when it actually updates. We're chugging right along darlings. This is getting quite a bit longer than originally intended, but it's flowing a whole lot better. Unfortunately this means if you've come for smut it will actually be a slow burn now, and not just my sad attempt at. Apologies. Still, I believe a better quality story is a good trade off for such things.
> 
> Also! If anyone is interested I am in need of a beta reader. I'm trying to do it all myself, but my eyes cross after a while and I know I miss a lot of mistakes. As always, thank you for reading darlings, and I hope you enjoy.


	3. Gunslinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They moved through the rest of the building quickly, sweeping the floors and eliminating their enemies swiftly. Rory managed to lose herself in the kick of her weapon, the rapid fire of bullets, the scream of mutants. If she didn't stop, she didn't have to think for a little bit, and that was an alright trade in her book.

**Long Road to Ruin**

 

While it turned out the little smoothskin knew absolutely nothing of military tactics and advantageous positioning, she listened well and followed orders to a tee. A basic run down of hand signals had her nodding silently and pulling a small, automatic .10mm SMG from her pack. It wasn't going to do much damage, but it would sure as hell piss off whatever muties were inside.

“We're going to piss them off from out here. The windows will provide good cover, and I want you to light them up. Don't worry about accuracy for now, I just want you to fire as many bullets as you can. I'll go in under the cover fire and take them out. Once you breach the entryway you find cover and stay there, no matter what.” Charon instructed in that low growl she was coming to associate with his voice, and his alone. He was still trying to keep her far away from danger, and while she appreciated it, it irked her to no end. She wasn't helpless. (Mostly.)

“I guess this isn't the time for long range firearms, huh?” She teased, but at his droll look she quickly dropped it and moved into position behind him.

“We keep low and quiet, all hell will break loose soon enough.” Was his last warning before they were moving, creeping around the front until he could get to a window and get a good count. Pressing his back against the wall, the girl at his side, he almost smirked when he saw the big, green brutes lumbering around inside. (The fact that he could be in and out without so much as a scratch didn't escape him, but the little human seemed determined. He wasn't going to contradict her. Not his place.)

“Three visible on the first floor, two on the second. You ready?” He asked glancing down at her. A whispered, “Yes.” was his answer and he was moving towards the door, leaving her alone by the window. She knew what to do, technically, but she'd never done anything of the like before. (Sure the majority of her combat experience involved screaming and firing off as many shots as she could, but it still _felt different_.)

She gripped her little gun tightly and drew a shaky breath, eyes glued to her companion's back. He made some complicated gesture with his fingers (Something, something, shoot a lot) and nodded once at her. She peeked over the window sill and lifted her weapon, quivering for a moment before her finger squeezed the trigger and bullets exploded outwards. Enraged roars drowned out the sound of gunfire for a moment (she really, really wanted to panic, oh god Charon was going to die and she was next), but she kept her finger on the trigger, her eye on the monsters.

Suddenly it was quiet again and she was leaning against the window, eyes wide, body shaking, and watching Charon pick his way back outside. Everything had been so fast, his shotgun flaring, liquifying body parts, pieces flying through the room. That was more than she'd ever done before. More death and carnage in that one instance than all months previously combined.

Charon appeared beside her, stoic and covered in blood and she felt a little woozy for a second.

“I need to sit down.” She managed to mutter right before the earth shifted beneath her feet. Charon had her in a moment, his arms around her waist to keep her from falling.

“Whoa there smoothskin. Big deep breaths.” He rumbled at her as he lowered her slowly, letting her body fold up on itself. “Come on, head down.” He gripped the back of her neck gently and pushed until she was nearly bent double (with hardly any resistance at that, kid was flexible).

“I'm sorry.” She muttered between her knees and he patted her back a bit awkwardly. “That's...I'm not usually so, so...” She fumbled for a moment and waved her hand, fingers wiggling as if to pluck the word from the air. “Pathetic.” She finished lamely, body slumping.

He sat quietly for a long minute, letting her collect her thoughts, and trying to collect his own. Comfort was not something he was skilled at giving (or receiving for that matter, but that was neither here nor there), so he just patted her back again.

“It was a lot.” He said after a moment of silence. She scoffed but he shook his head. “It was. Don't feel bad. Lights flashing, loud noises, screaming, not to mention the gore. I'm...impressed you didn't faint.”

“I almost did.” She groused.

“But you didn't.” He countered quickly and she paused for a second, before a small laugh bubbled up from her chest.

“Aww, Charon, that's downright sweet.” She teased, and he immediately stiffened and pulled away from her, clearing his throat loudly. She chuckled again and sat up, bracing her hands on her knees. She drew a deep breath and blew it out noisily before pushing herself to standing once again.

“Alright, bad feelings are gone. Shall we get that dish?” She chirped, bouncing back awful quickly. It made him suspicious, but he kept his thoughts to himself and followed after her (Not his place). Quiet instructions from him kept them safe as they eliminated the rest of the mutants in the building. She did much better the further along they went until finally they hit the exhibit for the Vaults.

Rory froze in place, eyes wide, fingers gripping the barrel of her gun with white knuckles. Her breath came in short, quick little gasps while her pulse fluttered wildly in her throat. (Great, his new employer was a coward, perfect. What the hell was there to be afraid of?) But all too soon she squared her shoulders and was marching towards the entrance. The lights flashed and she leapt nearly a foot in the air, barely managing the stifle a scream in her hands. Charon merely watched her silently, watched as she scurried through the exhibit like a rabbit. (“Nope, nope, no, no way, nope, not happening!”)

They moved through the rest of the building quickly, sweeping the floors and eliminating their enemies swiftly. Rory managed to lose herself in the kick of her weapon, the rapid fire of bullets, the scream of mutants. If she didn't stop, she didn't have to think for a little bit, and that was an alright trade in her book.

Before she knew it, however, she was fighting to get the dish off the side of the lunar lander. It still blew her mind that, once upon a time, people had the option of leaving their planet behind. (Not that there was anywhere else to go, but for a little while they didn't have to stay.)

“Sonofa...bitch!” Her small voice groused between grunts of exertion. “Next time I see Three Dog I'm gonna...” She trailed off, grumbling under her breath as they fought to get the satellite disk off the Virgo II shuttle. There was nothing (at all, in any way, whatsoever) intimidating about her, and it quietly amused him that she thought otherwise.

"Talk him to death?" Charon added under his breath only for her to dig her heel into his side in retribution. He grunted and almost laughed. Intimidating she might not be, but she was a vicious little thing.

From her precarious spot on Charon's shoulders, wrench in hand, grease and blood smeared across her face, she fought with the bolts to loosen them. His hands rested against her thighs, as light a touch he could manage while keeping her firmly in place while she wiggled about. (Damn the wiggling, he might have been old, but by god he was still a man. And her legs encasing his head weren't making things any easier either with her soft, toned thighs. No!)

“Sure he knows where your dad is?” Charon asked from beneath her. Her hand slipped and another long string of swears followed. (“Agh! Fucking hell I'm not going to have knuckles left after this! Fuck!”)

“I really hope he does. Otherwise I'm going to be a bit pissed at trekking all over the mutant infested DC area for no reason at all.” She hissed at the blood on her knuckles but merely rubbed her hand on her pants and went back to work, muttering under her breath about wires and connection attachments.

She was interesting, he'd give her that. For all she claimed to be wasteland “trash” she was cleaner than most people he'd seen wander into that bar. Sure she was grimy, but it hadn't caked into her body yet, hadn't changed the color of her skin or hair. It wasn't his business though, so he kept his tongue. If she wanted to share, she'd share, and if he didn't have to, he certainly wouldn't be the one to force anything from another person.

“Ah hah hah!” She crowed and finally wrenched the dish from it's spot, only to over balance and nearly topple from his shoulders. Charon was quick though, and Rory was light in his arms as he caught her bridal style and they both paused the watch the dish clatter to the ground and roll a few feet away.

She glanced up at him through thick lashes and her face immediately flamed red once more. Human contact hadn't exactly been common underground, and now that she was above it became even less so. (Where all people so warm? Was it a ghoul thing?)  Much less being almost nose to nose with someone else.  Boy she was starved for affection.

“Welp! Got the dish, let's go!” She squeaked as she shoved at his chest and staggered to her feet when he let her go. She bounced over to the dish and hefted it up, inspecting it critically. “Part of me doesn't want to fix his radio tower.” She admitted quietly as he righted himself and brushed dust off his knees. He almost hadn't heard her, but the museum was dead quiet, they'd made sure of that earlier. “But it's the only news I get. Only way I know where to help.” She glanced at him then and her eyes were glassy, but she blinked quickly and the look was gone, replaced with a smile. (It concerned him on a number of levels, how much those eyes hid.)

“C'mon big guy, maybe we can make it to the monument before nightfall if we hurry.” She quickly lashed the disk to her pack with cords and rope and hauled it onto her back, groaning at the added weight.

“Would you like me to shoulder the weight, ma'am?” He asked, hefting his own, much lighter, bag and watching her with a raised brow. She barked out a laugh at him.

“Did you just “ma'am” me? Really? Oh you're killing me.” And she was already moving back the way they'd come, following the trail of dead bodies. She hadn't lied when she told him she wasn't the best in a gun fight. But she was a fast thinker, and even faster on her feet when danger was present. While his shotgun had made quick work of mutants they hadn't surprised, she was a damn good shot with her little rifle when she had time to set up and breathe. That was an awfully big If though.

Still, he just shook his head as they moved on, and eventually slowed to a stop before the Vault exhibit, as she had done the first time through.

Rory felt her throat close up, felt the cold trickle of fear down her spine once more. (Underground. Small, tight, confined. Cornered, afraid, shots in the dark, screaming, blood everywhere. _Jonas_.) She heaved a breath and glanced over her shoulder to smile at her companion. It wasn't reassuring in any way, she knew this, but boy did she try.

“Are you alright?” She heard him ask from somewhere beyond the cotton wrapped around her head. Her heart was slamming into her ribs, and she was fairly certain he could hear it's frantic staccato, even if he was too polite to mention it. (Or maybe it was the blood rushing in her ears that was drowning everything else out? She wasn't sure anymore. All she knew was panic.)

“Oh, yeah! Sure, fine, just fine.” She squeaked quickly and moved forward again, legs shaking with each step. When she'd first come through she'd practically ran the whole way, from the moment the exhibit sprang to life and the disembodied voice proclaimed the greatness of Vaults (she'd very nearly burst into tears, but she was _not_ going to cry in front of Charon, or anyone). This time she forced herself to slow, one foot steadily in front of the other. She looked neither right or left, but stared at the floor.

Charon watched her silently, noted every line of tension that flowed over her body. She hadn't said much to him, had told him very little of herself so far, but he was slowly piecing some things together. Something most likely involving a Vault. There were plenty of them that had been opened, and those brave enough to go exploring could turn a pretty lucrative profit if they made it out alive.  Maybe she'd been part of a salvage team that had met it's untimely, probably gruesome, end.  He could speculate all day (maybe he would later) but until she actually told him anything, that's all it would be. So he settled his curiosity and merely rested a hand on her shoulder to give a gentle squeeze. Her eyes flashed to his face, wide and wild and full of fear, until she seemed to recognize him and smiled so gently.

That was an uncomfortable feeling settling somewhere in his chest.

He shook his head and decided to do something about it.  He simply lifted her pack from her shoulders and adjusted the weight on his. She squeaked indignantly at him, but he merely smirked and kept up a steady pace, forcing her to lengthen her stride to keep up with him.

“What's the matter, smoothskin? Too short?” He taunted over his shoulder. She sputtered and called him a few choice names (none derogatory to his “condition” which was slightly refreshing), and trotted faster.

“I'm perfectly tall for my age, thank you!” She snapped waspishly until she could managed to catch up with him and tug at her bag.

“What age is that? Five?” He teased with a laugh, keeping a firm grip on the bags. They were almost out, good.

“Nineteen you lanky bastard! Not all of us have legs that go on for miles!” She tugged sharply and he pretended to stumble, but carefully shoved her out of the vault door. She staggered and caught herself (agile little thing) and stared around her. She glanced over her shoulder at the door then up at him, and finally, finally, gave him a real smile once more.

“I feel the need to amend my statement.” She said as he handed her her pack back, which she graciously took. “You beautiful lanky bastard.” And punched him lightly in the arm. He didn't think about it, couldn't, she was just an odd, lost little girl and he, well he knew what he was. He patted her head again and moved on, leaving the Vault behind them.


	4. Lady Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was more red than gold and he found himself feeling another new emotion (maybe not new, but not heard of for at least fifty years). A little part of him hated her, even as a little part of her loved him at that moment.

**I Bet My Life**

 

“Daylight!” She cheered when the door swung open and she was bathed in the hazy golden sun of late afternoon. She seemed to glow in the light and he found himself struck dumb by the sight of her awash in colors. It was like the old paintings that still hung in the art museums, gilded and beautiful, something that should be protected, guarded, safe in some golden hall. He looked away, swallowing thickly. Emotions were not something he was capable of dealing with, much less the ones her particular brand of peculiarities were inspiring in him.

(It's not even been 24 hours man, get a hold of yourself.)

He started scanning the area for threats. That was something he knew, something he was comfortable with. Keep his employer safe, especially when she broadcast their location all over the Mall. Stupid kid (that was much more like it!).

She spun around quickly, her smile blinding as her gaze landed on him. She'd forgone her coverings since it was so late in the day, and he really wished she hadn't. His life (her life) was so much easier when she covered that platinum halo of hair, that beacon in the wastes. “Okay, now to find the monument.” She muttered happily before pulling up the map on her Pipboy. Without meaning to he snorted. She immediately glanced up at him, brows furrowed.

“What?” She asked slowly, dragging out the letters.

“Look for the monument.”

“Yeah? That's what I'm doing..?”

He huffed out an amused sound and gripped her chin gently between his fingers and lifted her face to the skyline where the Washington Monument stood in stark, decrepit relief. Her mouth made a small 'o' and she blinked owlishly.

“Eyes open smoothskin, first rule of survival out here.” He told her, releasing her chin quickly, as if it burned. She worried her lip between her teeth, but pushed all thoughts away but her current task. (This was all going to come back and bite her in the ass, she just knew it, but that didn't stop her from slamming her hand onto the self destruct button.)

“Yeah, right, I'm...kinda bad at that.” She admitted softly, not looking at him. “Maybe once we get out of here you could help a bit? Teach me some things when we aren't swamped with mutants?” Her words were hesitant as she regarded him from beneath the fringe of her hair and he couldn't help but smirk.

God she was cute. Even when she was hidden behind the layers of masks and head wraps, the thick goggles that covered her dark eyes. It was so much worse without those things. His smirk curled into a sneer and he looked away again.

“Troublesome. That's all you are.” He muttered, but apparently something in his voice was something she seemed to recognize and she smiled brightly at him.

“Yeah, but I grow on you. Kinda like mold.” She teased, voice light and she was laughing, bright, just like the rest of her. Then red was blooming across her chest, stark and terrifying.

A sudden crack rent the air, startled them both, but before either could make a noise, react in any way, blood was soaking into his armor and she was falling ever so slowly.

Her eyes were impossibly wide as they locked on his face. Terror consumed her even as her mind tried to catch up with everything that had happened, tried to process what was still happening. She tried to focus past the pain (on the ground, on the sky, on anything other that the fire that ripped her shoulder apart), she knew she was rapidly descending into shock. Logically, she understood, but the base animal instinct in her was panicking hard. What to do, what to do, what to do...

Charon caught her against his side, shotgun almost materializing in his hands as he caught sight of the Super Mutant descending upon them, face twisted into a grotesque smile. How had he not seen...? He turned so his body was shielding hers and waited as only he could, as only a killer had the patience to wait. His shotgun roared once, twice, and the mutant's head liquefied before he could reach them. The body slammed to the ground, skidding forward a few feet before flopping once then never again.

“Charon?” She whispered behind him and he spared a glance towards her before scanning the area once more. Nothing. It wasn't unheard of for one mutant to roam alone, just rare. He'd already failed, already allowed himself to be distracted once, he wasn't about to let it happen again.

He moved them backwards swiftly, back against the shelter of the building and gently lowered her to the ground. His side was warm and sticky and as he looked down at her, she was more red than gold and he found himself feeling another new emotion (maybe not new, but not heard of for at least fifty years). A little part of him hated her, even as a little part of her loved him at that moment.

“I am here. You are fine.” He told her gently and waited for her gaze to settle on him as he ripped through her pack to pull out the med kit. Buried at the bottom. He groaned, loudly, and really needed to have a chat with her about how to pack efficiently.

“Charon, it really hurts.” She tried to keep the whine from her voice, but she'd never been shot before, never like this. She had her fair share of close calls, things that had nearly scared the life out of her. But she'd never been shot directly before. She'd never been in this much pain in her life. Though part of her was glad, at least she knew she was still alive for the foreseeable future. She hoped at least, and if she had been the praying type she would have done that as well.

“You will be fine.” He growled at her and she winced away from the sound. It was too much for her to handle him being angry with her as well. She didn't feel particularly emotionally fragile, but after everything in her life in the past few months, maybe she was a little bit. (Not that she had any reason to be, no not at all.)

He went to work on her shoulder, wrapping and bandaging as best he could until he could get her somewhere safe (preferably sterile) to check for the bullet and remove it if necessary. It wasn't good to go rummaging around in someone's body, infection being the least of concerns, but then, neither was it especially good to leave a bullet in a body either. She cried out softly her body going limp when he pressed a little too hard on her wound. His gaze flicked to her face, saw her eyes practically rolling in her head from pain. His gut twisted uncomfortably, but he ignored it and slowly gathered her into his arms. He lifted her quickly, her head lolling against his shoulder as he jogged towards their objective.

(Damn Three Dog and his ridiculous errands, and his fucking “Good Fight”. Asshole, sending a kid into DC on an impossible task. Charon was going to have a chat with the disk jockey when they got back, a chat that involved the butt of his shotgun and the DJ's face. If it were his place, which it wasn't.)

Stupid kid. Stupid, stupid-

“Halt!” The tinny voice shocked him, but it didn't show, and Charon merely slowed to a stop, his loping gait having eaten up the ground between the museum and the monument. Now he stared down a Brotherhood member with an unconscious girl in his arms. This could look a little better. (This could look a lot better and he'd still wind up full of holes.)

“State your business.” The soldier (as if the paltry ranks of today could compare to his youth) demanded and Charon had to shift his grip slightly, fingers slick with blood.

“Need to attach the dish. Let me in.” He all but commanded, barking his orders like a drill sergeant. Apparently even so many years under Ahzrukhal's employ could not take away everything that was _him_.

The tin man shifted uncomfortably, almost jumping to obey before his brain caught up with what he was seeing. “With an unconscious woman? You expect me to believe that, shuffler?” He sneered and Charon grit his teeth so hard they creaked. He took a menacing step forward, and suddenly a minigun and assault carbine were pointed at him. He growled low in his chest.

“Charon...put me down?” He heard and his head snapped towards her. She reached up and patted his cheek gently, leaving a bloody hand print, and he tried to hold her tighter for a moment (it hadn't been an order) before she gifted him with that smile of hers. He nodded minutely and slowly lowered her to her feet, holding her elbow as she wobbled next to him. She drew a deep breath and leveled the coldest look he'd ever seen at the guards in front of them.

One heavy footstep clanked, startling the guards from their unconscious retreat and stopped their shifting away from her, throats clearing and shoulders squaring once again.

“You will let me in.” She said so softly they had to lean in to hear her, her voice compelling.

“No civilian-” One guard began and she slid her near black-eyed gaze to him.

“You _will_ open this door, right now.” She hissed even as she wobbled forward a step. (She felt like hell, each moment was one less she'd be able to stand on her own soon. But covered in blood, with her face and her colors? She struck a terrifying image.) “I was sent by Three Dog to fix the fucking relay dish, and if you bastards did your damn _job_ I wouldn't have to be here in the first place! Now are you going to continue to be useless assholes, or let me and my friend here in?” He was impressed by the bite in her tone, how her voice never wavered, despite the blood sluggishly pumping from her wound. For a moment, neither side seemed to move before one bent to tap a series of keys across a monitor and the door slid open.

She strode past them, a trail of blood in her wake, but her head was held high. She staggered only once, hissed as a guard reached for her arm to steady her, and continued on her way, Charon following silently behind.

She immediately slumped again when the doors to the monument closed. All strength gone, adrenaline leaving her system so quickly, and leaving her useless in it's wake. Her hands shook.

“Useless bastards tryin'a keep me from important shit...” She mumbled as her head rolled to the side again, her illusion shattered into a million needle fine pieces. “'M I gonna live?” She asked as he ushered them into the elevator as she let her head roll back to gaze up at him. He couldn't name the emotion he saw in her eyes, so he turned his face away and watched the doors.

“Seems you are a bit like mold.” He grumbled and she barked out a laugh.

“Told ya. Can't even scrub me off.” She leaned a little further into his side and he hazarded a glance at her, but her eyes were closed, face slack as if in sleep. He hoped she wasn't going to slide into shock on him, he wasn't sure he could handle that currently.

“Come on kid, stay awake.” He grumbled and jostled her a bit as the elevator came to a rocky halt and spat them out at the top of the building. She hissed at the pain, but otherwise didn't move to protect herself either. He noticed a mattress that had been dragged to the side and immediately moved her to it and laid her down.

“Being shot sucks. Worse than any busted lip or nosebleed Butch gave me.” She mumbled at him as he peeled away her armor (hers was in worse condition than his had been, what was she thinking spending all of her caps on him?) and inspected the wound. He fished out the first aid kit again, glad it looked like a clean through and through.

“Whoever this Butch is, he sounds like a real asshole.” He spoke lowly, trying to keep her focused on talking instead of passing out again. He pulled out a syringe of med-x to inject into her arm, it was the best anesthesia he had access to currently. She whimpered softly, but smiled at his words.

“He was. Tunnel Snakes Rule! My left foot.” He raised an eyebrow at her and she huffed, eyes glazing over as the meds kicked in quickly.

“Tunnel Snakes?” He asked, never taking his eyes off his work. She had everything he needed, even if it was inconveniently located. He clean the blood from her shoulder, careful around the exit wound, which was so much bigger than the entrance, and ragged. He'd have to hold the edges together to lessen the scar (did she even scar?). He pulled out a stimpak, maneuvering the needle deep into the tissue to heal from the inside first. She hissed at him, but he pinned her in place easily.

“Yeah. Butch was the leader. Right piece of work he was...but he was so broken.” Her voice turned small and sad when she finally answered and her eyes landed on his face. His gut clenched when he saw the pity in her eyes, but she wasn't watching him, she was looking somewhere far away. He still felt sick until her eyes finally focused on him and she smiled softly. “His daddy died young. His mama turned to alcohol instead of her son. He wasn't so bad really, and I was an easy target. Little Rory, all pale and skinny.” She mocked herself and he fought down the urge to snap at her, tell her to stop. But she was talking, and he needed that. He needed her awake so she didn't pass out and die and he'd have to find yet another employer.

“You are very pale.” He hazarded and slipped another needle into her back, making her whimper softly and cringe away from him. He pressed a large hand to her shoulder and kept her in place. One more to go, and it was the worst one.

“Leukism. It's like albinism but I've lost several types of pigment, not just melanin. The sun burns my skin a lot easier, but I'm not defenseless against it. It's beautiful though, the first time I saw it-” She laughed at herself and her eyes drooped a little lower, the green darkening to near black as she watched him work now. (It was strange being observed so closely, especially by his _patient_. Weird little smoothskin.)

“The first time?” He asked, and voicing those two little words aloud everything suddenly clicked into place. She was a Vault Dweller, had been at least. No wonder she had no idea how to fend for herself. He snorted. His luck, of course. “Which Vault?” He asked and she pierced him with a look, a strangely sober look, searching his face until she seemed satisfied and smiled vaguely.

“101 was my vault. Sort of. Apparently I was lied to. I wasn't vault born, just vault raised.” He saw the weight of decades in her eyes despite her young face, her short life. With all the medication in her system she didn't have the walls built up as she usually did. He could see everything, every fear, every bit of panic she'd forced down, every moment of weakness she'd brushed aside. She was achingly beautiful, and he liked that even less. “I don't really want to talk about it anymore.” She admitted quietly, and he only nodded, pinching the rest of her wound shut. He quickly injected her shoulder with a stimpak and watched her flesh knit back together.

“You're alright.” He told her gently, patting her hand and turning away from all the things he couldn't stand right now. “We'll stay here for the night. You rest, I'll fix the relay.” He offered, to which she immediately pushed herself up and frowned at him. (Her world canted wildly to the right, but she somehow managed to stay upright. Mostly upright. Vaguely upright.)

“No. This is my job, I gotta...I have to do this, otherwise he won't tell me.” She muttered, fingers curled at her sides. She hesitantly rolled her shoulders and found her body didn't immediately want to shut down and go into shock to protect itself. Which was good. She still had some muscle damage, but he'd done well on her arm, and she could put herself through physical therapy later. “You're gonna need my help. Besides this is what I do.”

She stood up then and wobbled violently towards her pack and the dish tied to it. She fought with it for a moment, body weak, but she was far more stubborn than any piece of technology, or rope. Her legs shook and when she finally pulled the dish free she nearly toppled over, landing unceremoniously in his arms once more. He raised a brow at her as her head lolled against his shoulder before she tried to stand once more.

“I gotta do this Charon. If I don't...Three Dog...he knows where my dad is. That's the whole reason I'm up here. If I don't fix this relay, then he won't tell me where he went. I'll be lost again. I won't have any-” Her words faded into a watery garble, her eyes filling with tears that clung to her lashes, but miraculously didn't fall. He stiffened slightly, concerned for her mental health as the meds tore down more of her control. (It was finally dawning on him how much she held back by a surprisingly iron grip.)

She sniffled pitifully for a moment, clinging half to the dish and half to him. “I've been alone so long now. And leaving...it was scary. People were trying to murder me. Just because dad left. And then here...more murder, more death. I'd never held more than a BB gun and I hated even using that.” She hiccuped, words spilling out now, even as her mind screamed sluggishly for her to stop. Reign it in girl, reign it in! You're better than this.

Rory let her gaze slip to his face briefly, and found herself mimicking the look he had, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. She idly wondered what he was thinking, by the looks of it though, it was nothing good. She drew a breath a squared her shoulders, even as he warred in himself, wanting (wanting, wanting so damned much for some god forsaken reason) to wrap his arms around her and make it go away. Shit this was bad.

She couldn't be weak, not in front of him. Not in front of anyone. Even with cotton around her senses, wrapped around her brain, she had to be strong. She was going to make it. She was going to find her father, bring him back, and give him the _sternest_ talking to of his life!

“You saved me.” She muttered when she finally felt strong enough to pull away and stand on her own once more. She managed to stagger over to the console, pressed buttons and began to pull wires free to replace. She turned her back towards him, mostly so she couldn't see what expressions where chasing themselves around on his features. She looked over it quickly, it was an impressive rig, for what had been set up in the wastelands.

“It is my job.” He replied and she smiled wanly.

“Right, of course.” She said and handed him the dish so she could dive under the computer and work her magic touch. She had to rewire a few things before she even contemplated putting that dish on the relay. Charon watched her work, noticed the intense concentration she had while she was removing the dish the first time. He hadn't had a conversation with someone in many, many years, but he found himself wanting to fill the silence. Wanting. Such a foreign word, the feeling all but unknown. And yet...and yet he shouldn't want to speak with her at all.

Still, his mouth betrayed him.

“You seem to know a lot about computers.” He spoke lowly from the side, arms folded over his chest in attempts of nonchalance. She jumped slightly, as if he'd startled her, and turned a bit red.

“Oh, yeah. Well, there's not much to do in a Vault, as you can imagine. I spent half of my time in trouble for hacking into the computer systems there, and the other half getting out of trouble by fixing everyone else's messes.” She laughed at the memories and shook her head. “Amata and I got trapped on the reactor level once, trying to hide from Butch and his buddies, and I locked them out. Unfortunately I also locked us in and didn't know how to fix it yet. My father rescued us hours later, two sobbing girls clinging to his coat.” She chuckled a bit harder and paused in her work for a moment and rubbed at her brow. “He did well for having no experience with children, and getting stuck with me.”

“You're a pretty good kid.” Charon said (and oh god he meant it), she snorted at him. He raised a brow at her, distracted from his own musing by her reaction.

“I'm not a kid anymore.” She defended, sounding more like a child than ever. “I've seen some shit.” It was his turn to snort, almost laugh, and she turned a playful glare at him, the green in her eyes sparkling.

“I'm sure you have kid. But you still can't fire a gun without flinching.” He teased and she blanched, mouth opening in shock. But then she laughed with him and turned back to her work.

“He has a sense of humor after all. Color me surprised.” She tapped a final few buttons and nodded sharply. “Think you can give me a boost out the window?” She grabbed the dish and leaned outside, only to feel his hands clamp over her elbows. She flicked her eyes to him, surprised.

“ _Out_ the window? You're crazy, you know that.”

“What? The relay is outside, and I have to attach it. Besides I trust you not to drop me, Charon.”

That rendered him speechless. He stared at her for a long moment, something churning in his gut that wasn't entirely unpleasant, and she really had to stop doing that to him. (Making him human again, how dare she?)

He hoisted her up onto his shoulders and easily anchored himself against the concrete siding of the building, using old rebar to keep him still. She wiggled and shifted, but true to her word, he did not, and when she was done, he pulled them both carefully inside.

“Why do you do that?” He asked as she moved the dish into position and rechecked her calculations one more time, just to be sure.

“Do what?” She asked distractedly.

“Make me...something.”

She glanced up at him finally and regarded him quietly and once more he saw the weight behind her eyes. Her smile came more slowly this time, like the dawn, and who knew hatred and love were so close together? And her answer was the simplest thing in the world.

“Because you are.”

“It's getting late. You should sleep.” He muttered softly, unable to look at her face after her words. Three Dog's voice crackled with glee over her Pip boy easily shattering the quiet they'd had, if however brief. She smiled and slumped over to the mattress, hitting it hard on her way down and flinching when she jarred her shoulder so.

“Room for two.” She mumbled from her position making him snort.

“Sleep kid. Tomorrow comes early.” But she was already snoring softly, a little smile on her lips that endeared him even more. He tugged the blanket over her shoulders, and shifted himself to the other side of the room, back to the wall, facing the elevator, shotgun nestled lovingly in his lap.

Tomorrow wasn't going to come early for him, it rarely ever did.

_Because you are._

Damnit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That took long enough. Thank you for reading!


	5. Paralyzing Palm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She let her hands fall from his armor but then he felt those small fingers hook around his. Her hand was impossibly soft and impossibly small in his. He stared down at them, the difference between his ruined skin and her perfect, and hated it.

 

(S.O.B.)

 

Their path from the monument had been almost pure chaos. She traveled wherever the wind seemed to blow her, often doubling back, taking a different route if the one she was on proved uninteresting. He'd asked, once, why they didn't head straight to GNR and she'd given him an odd little look before forcing a quiet laugh and turning around once more.

“Since we managed to scavenge more stuff at the museum, what say we take a little detour? Stock up on more supplies. I've heard Rivet City is close by. Never seen a ship before, at least one that's floating.” She chirped at him, asking his opinion even as he had to remind himself (over and over and over) that he could have one, could give it.

“You just bought supplies.” He pointed out unhelpfully, well aware of her less than subtle change of subject, but she just laughed and shook her head.

“You can never be too prepared, my friend! We always need more ammo.” She grinned at him over her shoulder and he raised his brow at her. While she wasn't wrong, he knew the signs of someone running from something. GNR scared the hell out of her, and he couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe, just maybe, he could convince himself to ask at some point.

“Do you know how to get there?” Her nose was buried in her Pipboy now, flicking knobs and toggles. That damn thing was going to get her killed one day, then were would he be. He watched as her foot caught a curb, boots scraping concrete and pitched her forward with a sharp squeal of fright. His arms were around her a second later, his chest pressed to her back as she sucked in a breath.

“Yes.” He murmured into her ear, and felt the heat spike in her body. Her pale skin made an excellent canvas for a spectacular blush. He released her quickly, before she could accuse him of anything, but she just turned those startled eyes on him.

“Th-thanks. I'm not usually so-” She waved a hand as if at a loss for words before gesturing lamely to herself. He arched a brow at her and she only shook her head. “Well anyways, things have been...I've been...it's just that-” She struggled with words and he stood silently by her side, a solemn regard in his gaze as she flicked her eyes to his face. Finally she blew out a hearty breath and pressed her hands to her hips. “I'm glad you're here. Months alone and I'm fairly certain I've lost a little bit of sanity.” She chirped and he huffed out what might have been a laugh. She arched a brow at him while a smirk plucked at the corner of her pouty lips.

He simply let his face go blank and she snorted.

“Well, let's go then if we're to get there before dark. Though maybe dark would be better, not so many raiders out...” She trailed off, mumbling to herself. He shook his head once but it was enough to catch her eye.

“Daylight is safer. Come on kid, let's get you to Rivet City.” He said, passing her without touching (Their minimal contact had been almost more than he could take already. She never flinched, never recoiled in horror, and while his condition didn't bother him, he knew it made smoothskins uncomfortable...but not her...) and moved on down the road at a rather clipping pace. She trotted for a second to catch up until she was walking beside him, two steps for his one, but she was doing well. For one so short she had ridiculously long legs. He found he didn't have to slow down like he had to for former employers. He wondered if she could really keep up with him, despite the fact that he had a good foot and some change on her, so he lengthened his stride until it was comfortable for him. She didn't miss a step, and in fact began humming as they moved along, entirely at ease in his company.

Another thing that, the more he had time to think about it, the less it made sense. He'd shot Ahzrukhal point blank, twice, and she'd still wanted him to come with her. She'd seen him butcher super mutants, she'd seen his blood thirsty nature and had hardly batted an eye. She wasn't built for such violence, but she hadn't recoiled from such darkness in him. It had been one of the deciding factors when she'd given him “freedom”, to actually know what it was like for someone to enjoy his company. He couldn't remember a time in his life it had happened.

He'd always been a weapon, a killer, a force to be reckoned with, and while employers were safe from his wrath, he'd not had it in him to hide the brutality of his training. Even Ahzrukhal had spent as little time alone with him as possible. Yet here was this strange little smoothskin.

She made him feel, made him think and worry, and that was worse than nearly any torture he'd had to endure over the course of his life. And yet, yet he still wanted just a little more. Wanted her to reach out and touch him, feel the newly developing callouses on her soft hands. He wanted to feel his heart beat just a little harder, and not from fighting. Maybe he was a masochist? It was entirely possible.

He glanced down at her from the corner of his eye to see her eyes bright, she was getting into the song she was humming. She'd even uncovered part of her face to sing a bit outloud. It didn't sound like anything Three Dog played, it almost had an air of classical to it, which almost made him grin. Quietly, in the dark (deep, so very deep dark) recesses of his mind, he could admit he found her attractive. Her broad nose and plump, wide lips, her radiant smile. She was pale but for the pink of her skin and the platinum gold of her hair. Though, if he looked hard enough, there was a smattering and light freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Which was ridiculously endearing.

Her hips swayed with her walk, and not the awkward wiggle she'd done with her dancing, no, but a long rolling gait he could appreciate. She'd done well to hide her body in the wastes, her armor was bulky, but fit snug and proper against her frame. The less who could see her curves (curves he'd never stopped to take the time to appreciate, curves that would get her snatched and sold) the better it would be for her. As well as him for having to keep her safe.

Before he could react, her eyes flashed to his face and a smile crept onto her lips once more as she let the song die down to silence. Mentally, he floundered, sputtered and tried to right himself. Physically he merely quirked a look at her once more before returning his gaze to the road. His mask, he was somewhat proud to admit, was infallible. She hummed softly beside him and nudged his arm with her shoulder. God, she really was small.

“Cap for your thoughts.” She prodded as she took her turn to admire him. Medically he was fascinating, as all ghouls were, but if she were entirely honest, she wasn't really looking at him from a medical standpoint. He was a specimen. A damn fine one at that. She'd never been prone to stare at the male form (or the female one) but then, life in the vault hadn't given her much to stare at. The same faces day in and day out, all of which shunned or bullied her. No, thanks.

Life outside hadn't proved much better, aside from the lean, wiry folks around her. But he was none of those things; tall and broad with thick muscles laid over his arms and legs. She could only imagine what his chest and back looked like and found herself blushing once more at the image of corded muscles layered over and over, sliding together as he moved and breathed and-

“You okay kid? You look flushed.” His growling words broke here revere and she nearly threw herself away from him like she'd been burned. She tittered out a high laugh and waved her hands in front of her face.

“Yep! Fine, totally fine. Just...fine. It's hot, that's all. Sun and pale skin don't do well at all.” She stammered out as quick as she could, pulling her wrap back up to cover her nose and cheeks. Damn her pale skin and it's broadcasting ways! This was why she never had a boyfriend, never kept one at least. Sure she'd fooled around (once, while in the vault, before getting cold feet and shoving him out of her bunk only to panic and treat him like a patient instead of a boyfriend. Smooth.) but never had she let her mind wander so far away from her. Fortunately it _was_ warm, and she felt the trickle of sweat glide down the back of her neck to prove her point. She just hoped he couldn't read minds.

Hazarding a glance at him she stifled a relieved sigh when he blinked slowly at her and nodded, accepting her words. “Do you have any water?” He asked, and she rummaged around in her pack for a moment.

“Yeah. Do you prefer irradiated or pure? I have both, just in case.” She muttered, extracting both and holding them out to him. She blinked owlishly at his bemused look as he shook his head once more, her hands falling to her sides.

“Not for me kid, for you.” It felt like he was chastising her, but the mirth in his eyes belied the sting...a little. She ducked her head and shoved the irradiated water back into her pack.

“Right, yeah, hydration. That's a thing-” But her words were cut short as they rounded a bend and he shoved her down into cover. She scrambled into position quietly, and pulled out her rifle to check the chamber for rounds. He'd done the same, only much faster, and was already peering around the broken concrete divider.

“What is it?” She asked, barely enough air passed to lips to give voice to the words. He appreciated it, maybe enough to one day voice it aloud. Maybe even to her.

“Mutant nest. Up the road, to the left. Two visible.” He returned, just as quietly and she nodded. He needed to assess the dangers, find the best route to get her around the bunker and into the city. He didn't have any long range weaponry, only his shotgun, which was beautifully effective up close. He felt her hand on his back, and turned slightly to glace at her. She held out her rifle and nodded to him.

“I can't hit them from here, neither can you with that shotgun.” She said as if she'd read his mind and pressed her gun into his hands, a wicked curve to her lips. “I've got a pistol I can use for cover fire after the first shot.” And it honestly didn't sound like a bad idea to him. What sounded better would be skirting the issue entirely, but Rivet City was right there, and the only way in was past the nest (or down to the lurk infested waters and he'd rather cut off his own arm, thanks).

Then he heard a quiet sound that had her head snapping towards the mutants like a swivel. Her eyes narrowed, her teeth bared, and honestly he was a little impressed by the feral look in her eyes.

“They have a captive.” She growled and a shudder ran down his spine, prickled his skin, and he swallowed thickly. Shit that was attractive (stopping that line of thought right there). He turned towards the bunker, resting the rifle against the barricade as he heard her draw the little 10mm. Her focus was razor fine as he wrenched his gaze away from her and let it settle on the mutants just ahead, one hundred or so yards. And easy shot, easier if he had a proper sniper rifle and yet- and yet he felt the need to prove his prowess. He'd let her be shot, had failed within the first day of her holding his contract.

He drew a deep breath, felt his chest expand, felt the muscles in his shoulders loosen as he sighted down the barrel of the gun. A head peered around a corner, lips peeled back in a permanent sneer. One moment it was saying something, the next, a red mist fanned out from between its shoulders and doused the immediate area.

Screams of rage sounded almost immediately, and when the first green brute broke cover she was there, firing shots as fast as she could. He would have to remember that, she was fearless when she was pissed. He lifted the rifle once more while the creature raged and danced, swatting at bullets like flies (not that it did much good as little red pock marks appeared along it's skin), giving him plenty of time to take aim once more and fire.

Silently he appreciated exploding heads.

All seemed to fall quiet for a moment and they shared a look between one another. Either all the muties were dead, or someone was hiding. He traded her rifle back and cocked his shotgun, tucking it against his shoulder. He crept towards the nest, his finger brushing the trigger almost lovingly as it itched and strained to blow something else away. A couple centuries though, and he had a handle on patience. Market cornered and all _that_ particular jazz.

She moved silently behind him, keeping a couple feet back, and placing her feet exactly where his had been. She was a fast learner, and his chest puffed out silently in the thought that she was watching _him_ and learning. _Good girl._

They managed to make it into the nest and round a corner, captive in sight when a deep, “There you are!” rattled their bones and, in tandem, they swung towards the monster bearing down on them. Rory aimed for knees while Charon filled it's face full of lead, pumped the chamber and fired once more as the beast roared and toppled backwards heavily.

He stood over it to check even while Rory scrambled away towards the woman bound and gagged, sobbing in front of a pyre. Bodies, and various parts, littered the area around her, and a bruise was blooming on one side of her face.

His little vaultie cooed and hummed, petting the woman's hair as she untied her and rubbed at the ligature marks on her skin. He kept his scoff to himself and kicked around the nest some, fishing out ammo and a few sellables for her. Them. Damnit. A swift kick to what was left of a face alleviated some of his tension then he rolled his shoulders and kept digging.

“Please, take it. It's all I have.” The woman was saying, but Rory was folding her hands over the few items (a stimpak, and a couple boxes of food, it was sad, really) and shook her head.

“You keep them. You need it more than us. How about we take you to Rivet City, huh? Just a hop, skip and a jump over that way.” She bobbed her head towards the ship not too far away and smiled her most brilliant smile. The woman's eyes blurred and another grateful sob wracked her frame as she slumped against her savior, clinging for all that she was worth.

Saviors. But that didn't stifle the scream that wrenched it's way from her throat at the giant shadow that fell across them. He knew he was tall, broad, and rotting in a way that was horrifying on the best of days. This was not the best of days by any stretch. Rory merely patted the woman's back awkwardly, shushing her gently.

“It's okay. It's alright. He's my friend. He'll keep us safe, trust me.” She was assuring gently while the woman quieted down once more. He watched impassively, as always, though irritation grated at his nerves. He felt raw, nerves exposed and sparking under what was left of his skin. He didn't like this feeling, he certainly didn't like where it was coming from. (This woman's opinion might change Rory's mind about him. That wouldn't do, not when she still held his contract, not when she still held sway over him. Amiable employers were preferable. (Damn those green, green eyes.))

Instead of something profound, he merely grunted at the pair of women and nodded his head towards the city. Rory smiled slightly and picked the woman up, looping their arms together while he fell into step behind them. The woman shot him fearful glances, but his girl (he had to stop thinking such things) kept chatting away, quietly, gently chastising the woman for prejudices she probably would never let go of without sounding belittling at all.

She stopped only once more to hand a bottle of her purified water to a man dying of dehydration on the rungs of the city steps. She met the snide voice over the intercom with sass and wit, claiming status as Queen of the Wasteland whose minions needed tending. He snorted at her and she grinned at him over her shoulder. But the bridge extended after a little fast talking, and they slowly ambled across.

A guard stopped them with a harsh glare and Rory raised an eyebrow at him.

“I'm Chief Harkness. I run the security force here, keep this tub safe and secure.” He eyed her warily, scrawny, lanky thing that she was (not, not really) and scoffed. “What's your business.” It should have been a question, but his tone, everything about him made it a demand. She smiled like a cat.

“Thank goodness Chief Harkness, for you. Why, I don't know what we'd do if you weren't here to keep us safe from the muties we just killed not a hundred yards from your city! Or the mirelurks I saw swimming in the waters surrounding this boat! Gracious me, I'd be terrified, lonely little scaver like me.” Her hand fluttered over her brow and Charon coughed softly, looking over the chief's head to keep his own face as neutral as possible. Harkness, well, he looked less than thrilled at the teasing.

“I said state your damn business, not mock me and my force.” He snapped and she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Touchy. I'm a scaver, looking to trade and find a good night's rest here. I need medical attention for this woman as well. Blunt force trauma to the head, multiple contusions, lacerations, ligature marks, and I'm sure other things that need treating.” She stepped forward so her front was nearly flush to his and gave her most charming smile. Charon beat down any thing that might have been mistaken for jealousy in his chest. He felt nothing, as it should be.

Harkness didn't seem moved, save for the slight flick of his eyes across her face. Finally he seemed to deflate and take a step back, giving her ground. “Sure, fine. Clinic is down that way,” He waved to a door and sighed. “Follow the signs. The Weatherly is up a flight. Market is behind us. Just, keep your nose out of trouble.”

She snapped her heels together sharply and gave him a salute Charon was quietly proud of.

“Yes sir, Chief Harkness, sir.” She teased before whisking her little party away and down the stairwell.

They dropped the woman off with nary a fuss while Rory delivered her glance over diagnosis (“I read medical books for fun. Can't you imagine how thrilling vault life was?”) and bid good-bye shortly after. Or tried to at least.

“You're her, aren't you?” A voice caught them off guard as she whirled around to face yet another woman in a white lab coat. Her face was pinched, features sharp, and she scoffed out a laugh when she got a good look at Rory's face.

“You're James' daughter. I'd know you anywhere.” She continued and shook her head, arms folded tightly over her chest. Charon didn't like her body language, sharp, standoffish, nearly resentful, but Rory was leaning towards her, mouth agape as she struggled for words.

“You know my dad?” She asked, approaching slowly as if the woman would disappear if she moved too quickly.

“Of course. I'm Doctor Madison Li. We worked together before he disappeared eighteen years ago. I was there when you were born.” Her tone remained clipped, as if she were trying to cut the girl in front of her. “You look like your mother.” That last part was a barb harsh enough that Rory flinched.

“I, um, I've been looking for him. Have you seen-”

“Jefferson Monument. He came waltzing in here after so long like a hurricane. Whipped my techs into a frenzy and blew right back out again. Had the audacity to ask for help.” She hissed, narrowing her eyes.

“You didn't help?” Rory asked, straightening up a bit, her eyes darkening in a way Charon was starting to recognize. She was angry.

“He's got an impossible dream. Maybe twenty years ago, but something that's been abandoned so long? After he abandoned _me_ for so long? No, I didn't help him. He'll never get clean water for the wastes. What we're working on is real. Fresh food that isn't irradiated. He's a fool-”

The sharp crack of flesh on flesh broke the silence so suddenly it nearly startled him. Charon watched as Rory bared her teeth at Madison, hand red and probably stinging from the slap she'd just delivered. Madison cupped her cheek, jaw slack and eyes wide as she tried to process what had just happened.

“Thank you, for your help.” Rory hissed in such a way it sounded as if she were cursing Madison. Telling her to burn in hell instead of expressing gratitude.

She was stalking past him suddenly, shoulders tight, hands curled to fists at her sides. She blew past him without a word and wrenched open the door. She stormed down the hall towards the stairwell and stopped only when there were several doors between her and the lab.

Her fingers caught the edge of his armor, tugged gently, and suddenly she was leaning against him. She blew out a soft breath and let her eyes close for a moment. He was frozen in place, the heat of her body seeping into his armor slowly. His hands hovered just over her head, unsure of himself. He didn't know what to do, her emotions were too much for him. He cold keep her safe from outside sources, could rip and tear and kill in an instant. There was nothing for him to hurt here, except maybe the doctor. He could go back and smash her head in, maybe that would help? It wasn't his job to do hat thought, and it was stupid of him to even think as much. (What was _wrong_ with him?)

Just as his hand finally seemed to touch her hair (a traitorous thought he hadn't been aware of), a door banged open and he jerked away from her as if burned. She jumped as well, didn't notice his brief, feather light touch and rubbed her hands over her face.

“C'mon Charon, let's go get some food.” She said softly, not speaking of her troubles, which he preferred. She glanced at him briefly, shoulders slumped, cheeks still red from her anger, and looking defeated. She shook herself, perked up and ran her hands through her hair quickly, fluffing up the wild locks.

“Muddy Rudder.” She said, catching sight of a sign hanging over their heads. “Sounds perfect.” She let her hands fall from his armor but then he felt those small fingers hook around his. Her hand was impossibly soft and impossibly small in his. He stared down at them, the difference between his ruined skin and her perfect, and hated it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate this chapter so much...but I cannot look at it another second and try to make it better.


	6. Comprehension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His lip curled as he released hers, watching as she sighed and curled up closer to him. Of all the soft, useless, irritating little-

(Creep)

 

They decided to only stay in Rivet City for a night. Rory had wanted to stay longer, somewhere with a soft bed, warm food, so reminiscent of her time in Underworld and yet so very not at all like that time. But the metal walls, the stale air, everything reminded her too much of the vault, she had to leave. She couldn't go to her father, not yet. She still had too many emotions to work through before she confronted him, even if it felt good to have him so close. She could get to him in an hour if needed.

She wandered around the ship after dinner, which had, thankfully, been only eventful enough to involve whispers. She was a pro at ignoring harsh words and stinging insults. Water off a duck's back, her father had always said to her.

(“Don't let it get to you honey. People are afraid of things that are different, things they don't understand. You can either condemn them to ignorance, or try to educate them. But you can't change everybody.”)

It helped that Charon was still by her side, unflappable as always. His face grim and stoic as he kept on constant guard. She knew it was his training, the contract she held, and no real care or concern for her, but she could delude herself just a little bit longer. Who would it hurt, anyways? (Only herself.)

So she'd wandered, acquainted herself with the market, Flak and Shrapnel being her favorites to bother, until it was time for bed. She'd paid for a room (only one because, “Are you _serious_? This bed better be made of a cloud!”) and shut the door tightly after they'd retired. She threw herself onto the bed and stared blankly up at the ceiling.

“I am so done with this.” She muttered quietly as Charon moved about, setting his pack in the corner and shoving a table against the door. He merely grunted at her in response and quirked an eyebrow. She smiled slightly at the action.

“Yup. Who thought it was a good idea to trap people in metal prisons? Vaults. Ships! Planes even! Though, planes could fly, so there's that.” She rambled, knew she was rambling, but was way too tired to care at the moment. Charon grunted again, but this one sounded a bit more amused. She was slowly learning the different sounds he made. “It does things to them, makes them crazy. They turn on each other, become ruthless and hateful and ugh. Like cuttlefish.”

“People are already ruthless and hateful.” She heard finally, after several heartbeats of silence. She rolled her head to look at him, perched in the chair with his shotgun across his lap. He was steadfastly not looking at her, but at some point in the corner.

“I guess. But there is still good here, isn't there?” She hadn't meant to ask it as a question, honestly. But she felt so small and so naive, and so very very lost majority of the time that maybe her subconscious decided things for her sometimes. Like turning phrases into questions.

He only grunted (or maybe it was a growl) once again and rolled his eyes. Of course it was stupid and naive of her to ask. Of course there weren't any good people left in the world. Even she couldn't really claim that title anymore after all she'd witnessed and done.

She reached up and rubbed her hands over her eyes, pulling away when she found wetness there. She stared at her hands as tears tracked down her cheeks into her hair. What the hell? She'd sprung a leak. That thought startled a laugh out of her, which only sparked more laughter, until she was lying on the bed, crying and laughing like some kind of crazy person.

Soon enough though, the laughter died down and she was sobbing, heaving breaths ripping their way from her lungs, leaving her gasping for precious air. Her muscles spasmed, her spine bowed, and still she couldn't reign herself in, try as she might.

She'd finally lost her mind. The stress was too much. She'd pushed and pushed and she knew she shouldn't, not without her medicines, but there she went, trying to be strong. Another sob tore itself from her and she clutched at her shoulders, clinging to herself, her only lifeline. How miserable. She only had herself, only she was left, all alone, by herself, no one to help, to hold her to-

Suddenly a hand fell into her hair, rubbing back the curls gently, lifting them away from her cheeks. It was so gentle, so sweet, her chest ached and she wailed into her pillow, still enough mind to muffle her cries somewhat.

Though it _was_ soothing. It was kind and awkward and the most wonderful thing she'd felt in months. Eventually, with fingers still rubbing her hair and scalp, she relaxed, muscles unknotting so quickly it hurt. The good kind of hurt, like setting a bone, or pulling out a splinter that had started to fester. Her eyes felt so heavy, and everything hurt, and oh god she felt so weak and stupid, but she was so tired. Her eyes drooped and she was asleep moments later.

– – – – –

He watched her. For the life of him he couldn't say what had moved him to touch her. She was suffering, obviously, but not from any physical malady. He was to protect her life which was very clearly not in danger at the moment. Though with how hard her little body rattled he wasn't too certain of _that_ particular truth.

So he'd gotten up, silently, and ever so softly rested his hand against her hair. At first he was afraid it was the entirely wrong move when she sobbed harder for a moment, but oh so slowly her body began to relax itself. Then she was asleep, and he was still by her side, gently rubbing her hair, tangling his fingers in the curls and pulling tenderly so as not to hurt.

Her lips had parted in her sleep and he found himself tracing the outline of them with the very tip of his finger. His skin was so harsh against hers, catching on every split on her slightly chapped skin, watching the gentle tug expose pearly white teeth. Teeth she had brushed before bed. Something so simple shouldn't catch his attention so, but it was so rare to see anymore. No one cared if your teeth fell out with far more pressing concerns like living to see another day. No one cared if faces were washed and hands were cleaned and hair was mite free.

She did. She cared far too much, and while he hadn't seen much of it in their short time, he'd seen enough to catch his attention.

 _She_ caught his attention. He hated that, he told himself. Hated how soft she was, how gentle her little heart beat in her chest. Hated her sincerity, her willingness to help anyone they came across, including himself. He didn't need her pity, her compassion. Weapons had no use for such things.

He was used to the burning, visceral hatred (thriving in his starved heart, whatever was left of it) that kept him going throughout his many long years. This was different. It didn't burn. It was embers, still too hot to touch, but softer, muted. Dying.

His lip curled as he released hers, watching as she sighed and curled up closer to him. Of all the soft, useless, irritating little-

“Charon?”

Well, at least she said his name right. Sharon had irritated him for years.

“Sleep kid.” He ordered, a thrill racing down his spine before he could suppress it. She merely smiled sleepily, her fists curled up next to her face, as if to protect her from something. He frowned, unable to look away.

Damnit. He hated her. He hated her. He had to hate her. His walls would not fall. Not after so short a time. He wouldn't let them. She was too soft, too kind, she would never survive and he'd be right back to square one.

He hated her even as he touched her hair one last time, brushing her cheek ever so gently and retreating to his corner, shotgun propped in his lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings. I'm so sorry I've been gone so many months. A bit of a filler chapter to make up for my absence. I'm having more time to write now, so I swear to you I will see this through! Thank you all so much for your kind words, and sticking with me for so long. You are all much loved and appreciated!


	7. Daddy's Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sure this is the place?” He asked, standing at her side, shotgun propped against his shoulder.  
> “Nope!” She chirped and bounced towards the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello darlings, I usually put these at the end, but it felt a bit more prudent to give the heads up that there's going to be a bit more exploration involving panic attacks and anxiety as a whole, so if you're sensitive to such things, please proceed with caution. This is supposed to be for funsies and I very much do not want this to not be funsies for someone. As always, enjoy! (*whispers* PS: Charon has feelings, much to his chagrin, teehee...)

(Relax My Beloved)

 

Nearly a month. He'd been in her service for nearly a month now. It never seemed to stop feeling strange being in her company. He kept waiting for that other shoe to drop. That one that made her human, made her not so good and kind and all the things that should have killed her long before now. But every day she smiled, bright as the sun, and helped any who she just happened to stumble across.

There were only ever brief moments where she seemed... _real_. He'd catch her crying, some nights, curled into a ball, body mostly hidden by her wild hair, shoulders shaking. He'd bang against the wall, be intentionally loud, to startle her out of her funk. She'd immediately wipe her eyes, grace him with a smile, and flutter past without acknowledging anything. (He knew that wasn't good. But it wasn't his _job_ , damn it. He wasn't built for that...)

They'd chased dead end leads of her father for weeks. The Jefferson had been full of mutants, and she'd collapsed when they'd cleared out everything and there hadn't been a body.

“Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm just...so relieved.” She'd laughed and rubbed at her face. “He's not here, which means he isn't dead. I hope.”

The holotapes of her mother's voice had been squirreled away, coveted so fiercely he'd decided it was in his best interest to leave it be.

Though he still heard the recordings some nights in Megaton, played over and over, punctuated by soft sounds that could have been anything (but he knew to be sobs). He left her alone most nights, unable to bring himself to deal with things. She seemed fine in the mornings anyways.

Just like today.

“Good morning, big guy!” She chirped at him, dancing into the living room with plates of food that smelled remarkably delicious.

“You're trying to make me fat.” He grumbled, even as he dug in and she beamed happily at him.

“Dad always said a good meal could go a long ways.” She could turn anything positive, he was convinced. He just grumbled again, enjoying being full, healthy (relatively), and well rested. That was a certain bonus he could get used to. For a bit at least.

“Alright big guy,” She finished her food quickly and shoved her plate away. “Time to head out again. I figure we can grab a couple last minute things, then I want to go to Vault 112. Okay?” She always asked. He knew the standing orders (that didn't work exactly like she wanted), but that didn't change his lack of free will.

“As you wish.” He finished his own food, muttering around a mouthful and she chuckled softly, taking his plate when he was done. “What?”

“Oh. Nothing. A line from a book.” She admitted while washing off the dishes in her little sink. Wadsworth would take care of the rest. He glanced at her, arm slung over the back of the couch.

“What book?”

“A very good one.” There was that cheeky grin. He caught himself smirking, forced it down. He was too comfortable with her, but maybe, it wasn't the worst thing? Why not enjoy this feeling, whatever it was, for a while? Something to bolster him in the years to come. Or, a little voice supplied, dripping poison in his ear, it could tear you down little by little knowing what you _had_.

He frowned. “I'm going to pack.” He said, standing abruptly and heading for his room. His room. His fucking room. She gave him his own room! Why was this so infuriating?

He packed quickly, efficiently, the way he'd been trained to do. There was comfort in falling into training, letting muscle memory take over, reacting instead of being proactive. Red and gold flashed through his mind and he gripped the straps of his bag so tightly his knuckles creaked.

Fuck feelings.

He stomped down the stairs to find her already there, tying off her boots and brushing imaginary dust off of her ridiculous dress. He couldn't seem to convince her to wear proper armor, not like his, but she seemed content with her patchwork pieces.

(“What? I can move real well, my core is protected, and the boots have steel toes if I need to kick someone!” That. That had been her defense. Kick someone real hard.)

“Ready?” She asked, eyes glittering at him. He grunted and moved past her, shouldering open the door. The faster they were done the faster they could- what? Come back to this domestic scene? He bared his teeth, jaw tight.

They avoided Evergreen Mills on their way, though he could see the silent promise she made to the people in the pens as they skirted the edge. They'd be back. He sighed.

“Well this is...anticlimactic.” She muttered, hands on her hips as she stared at the garage. It was amazingly intact, four walls still standing, windows still mostly whole.

“Sure this is the place?” He asked, standing at her side, shotgun propped against his shoulder.

“Nope!” She chirped and bounced towards the door. He followed a bit more sedately, shaking his head the whole way. The molerats were easy to take care of, as they always were. It was a bit harder finding the door, but when the grate slid open he watched what little color she had drain entirely. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, eyes wide. He couldn't seem to stop himself from laying a hand on her shoulder. She glanced up at him with a strained smile and stepped down the stairs.

“I, uh, I don't know what we're gonna find. There could be...anything really.” She muttered as they moved, weapons drawn. The slow trundle of robobrain tracks halted their movement as one rumbled into view.

“Greetings Resident.” What the hell. “You are 202.3 years behind schedule.” What. The. Hell.

But there she went. Slipping out of her protective gear, and into that ridiculous vault suit. His hand on her arm stopped her momentarily. She was so small and pale, her eyes wide, frightened and luminous as she regarded him silently. She touched his hand gently and granted him that damned smile of hers.

“Your contract is in the safe in my room. The key is buried under the loose floorboard in the kitchen. I just, want you to know that.” This felt too much like goodbye and something tightened painfully in his chest. “Try to find Moira, she's a really good person. Thank you, for helping me so much.” She leaned up on her toes then, fingers tugging at his collar so she could reach his cheek. She kissed him, it was a feather light touch, but it burned through his entire body.

Embers suddenly roared to life, entirely different, brighter, hotter, and she was climbing into a VR pod and he was losing her. No, no, no-

“No! Wait!” His hands hit the pod but she was already under. He stared at her blank face, eyes wide and unseeing. “Shit!” He pushed himself away sharply, throwing his hands to the side. He kicked a piece of debris on the floor and swore again.

For the first hour he paced, clearing away a dust free path against the floor. His thoughts tumbled over and over themselves. His skin burned where her lips had been. They'd never been overly familiar, but as time trudged on she'd taken to small shows of affection towards him. Her hand against his, her shoulder or hip bumping his side. She always felt like a ghost, lingering against him hours after she'd withdrawn.

By the end of the second hour he'd ransacked the place for anything valuable or useful. She'd want that. Her orders left him autonomous enough to make some decisions based on what he felt would be useful to his employer. He needed to obey something, and she wasn't there to direct him. He glanced at the pod, knowing her could pry her out (possibly killing her in the process) but he'd have her again. (It wasn't worth her life.)

The third saw him cleaning and repairing every weapon they owned. He even polished up an old knife she'd found and stuffed into her boot, only to be forgotten entirely. He wasn't sure how, but that really was par for the course for her. His hands were shaking and he had ground his teeth so hard his jaw ached. A headache was starting to form behind his right eye, and he knew it was only going to get worse from here. But he had no orders, no direction. His sole purpose was lying ten feet away, all but dead already.

(No. No, no, no, she's still alive. Elevated stress levels and heart rate, but alive. Not dead. Please not dead.)

At the beginning of the fourth hour he was contemplating whether or not he'd have to find a new contract holder when a cacophony of alarms startled the hell out of him. A VR pod hissed open and he was on his feet at her side before conscious thought registered.

Her little body all be fell into his waiting arms, fingers clinging to his armor and she gasped in huge gulps of air. Tears tracked her face but she was alive and safe. His fingers found their way into her hair (of their own volition) as he held her close.

“It's okay, I've got you. You're alright.” He was muttering softly to her, even as her breath and pulse evened out and she relaxed marginally. Finally she was pulling away, eyes bright, smile shaky, but there she was and he'd never been more relieved. He couldn't even muster enough energy to try and hate her as usual.

– – – – –

Of all the horrible things she'd witnessed, Braun had to have been the worst. Two hundred years of torture he'd been inflicting on these poor people. Two hundred years of whatever demented games and torment his twisted mind could come up with. She'd seen ruthless, blood thirsty, vile people (her first day out and Mr. Burke who'd wanted to blow up Megaton because it was an “eyesore”) but this was beyond words.

She'd never been so happy to escape something as she was to collapse into Charon's arms, strong and rough and _safe_. She felt like she'd been gone for weeks, fighting for freedom.

“I did it.” The act of speaking alone was taxing on her body. So much stress and anxiety. “I cracked the code, I implemented the fail-safe and k- killed those people. Braun will be alone forever now. He can't hurt anyone else.” Charon touched her cheek gently and her eyes found his face once more.

“You're a good kid.” He rumbled and she felt proud, so proud of herself. She'd been strong.

“Lorali-”

She whipped around, ripped out of her revere by her father's voice, Charon momentarily forgotten. Without thought she launched herself towards him, wrapped her arms around his neck, and squeezed for all she was worth.

“Daddy.” She sobbed, face buried in his shoulder. “Daddy I've been looking for you for so long. I thought you'd died! I thought I'd lost you forever!” Her father had his arms around her, squeezing back just as fiercely. He apologized over and over again, soft words of regret and sorrow and condolences. All the things she wanted to hear, but not the things she needed.

Pulling away she glared at him, fingers digging into the sleeves of his vault suit. “You left me!” She was so angry, so damned angry! “You left me down in that vault all alone with those psychopaths!”

“I was trying to protect you. Sunshine, you know I would never have left if I thought you were in danger!” He tried, so hard, to soothe her, but she wasn't having it. Oh no, she'd had months to stew over this, to think herself into circles and rip apart everything.

“Oh no! No you don't! You knew Almodovar had it out for us! You knew he was unhinged and that he'd stop at nothing to protect his precious vault, even from imagined threats! You knew and still you left! I had to fight my way out! I killed a man, daddy! I had to find Jonas by myself, beaten to death and left to rot!” Her hands slapped against his chest, staggering him with her anger and earned strength. “You don't get to apologize and have all this go away! You _lied_ to me, all my life, you left me, you didn't give a single shit about your child!”

“Don't you dare, young lady, assume for one moment I don't care about you.” Her father snapped, straightening to his full height, hands resting heavily on her shoulders (it felt remarkably like the weight of the world). “You have every right to be angry, you're right, but don't make assumptions about what I thought or how I felt. You are not a mind-reader.”

Rory was so angry. So fucking angry that he was right, and she felt properly chastised and cowed. He hadn't even had to raise his voice and already her head was bowed and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Damnit.

“We have a lot to talk about Sunshine. I have a lot of explaining to do.” He glanced over her shoulder, brows furrowing for a moment and she heard her companion shift, guilt assaulting her for forgetting him at all. She shot Charon and worried glance over her shoulder, but his face was unreadable once more, arms crossed over his chest. “Will you come with me back to Rivet City? I have to get my findings to the lab.”

She turned her face back to her father, her gaze was fathomless, deep and dark and so reminiscent of her mother it hurt.

“No. I need time to sort through things. I don't want to spend the whole trip angry with you, I want to be able to talk with a ration mind. I can't do that right now.” She found herself saying, pulling away and clinging to her sleeves. She was going to let him walk away again, after she'd spent so long trying to get him back. Everything was so broken out here, nothing made sense.

Her father regarded her for a long moment before he finally nodded and gave her the barest hint of a smile. “Alright. Alright, if that's how you feel. I'll see you back there soon though, right?” He took her hands carefully in his, feeling the new callouses against her palms.

“Yeah, of course. I'll be right behind you.”


	8. Child at Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She killed her very first thing that day.  
> (She didn't sleep that night.)

(Bad Company)

 

She was ten years old, finally, after an eternity of waiting, practically an adult now! Her excitement was a tangible thing as cameras flashed and she beamed as brightly as she could, little cheeks hurting, but far too happy to ever stop.

“Happy birthday Sunshine.” Dad rumbled over her as he tugged her into a one armed hug. Amata nearly tackled her, giggling madly, already having had her birthday. Rory was the youngest, but only by a month or so, so everyone always had their birthdays first. That never bothered her, never took away from her excitement, her pure joy at gaining another year.

“Oh what a beautiful young lady you've become!” Mrs. Palmer cooed at her, eyes crinkled so becomingly in her smile. Giving a quick hug Rory stepped away, bouncing on her toes, giddy to greet everyone, to get her party into full swing. “Here my dear, baked it fresh this morning, just for you.” Mrs. Palmer gave her a look. “Only for you, you don't have to share at all.”

“Thank you ma'am, but you certainly didn't-”

“Oh pish! What child doesn't want presents! Now shoo, enjoy your day my dear.” And she tried, oh she tried so hard.

“Gimme that sweet roll!”

“Butch, it's mine.” She took a step back, cradling her prize. “If you ask nicely I would share with you though.”

“I ain't asking no nosebleed nicely! Now gimme!” He lunged at her quick as a flash, but she had always been faster. She side-stepped, ducked under his wild swing and danced out of his way. Dad often told her she should have been a dancer, in another life, another world. She didn't know about all that, but it sounded nice regardless.

But fingers were tangling in her hair and anger flashed red hot in her mind. That was her mother's hair, the only thing she'd noticeably inherited, and she whipped around, smashing the sweet roll into Butch's face hard enough to send him reeling backwards. It was the shock that she'd retaliated more than anything, and he came up swinging once more, only to be caught by officer Gomez and frog marched out of the diner.

Rory watched Dad leave, promising to meet with him later, but the wind had been taken from her sails. Along with Butch all his little buddies bailed, leaving only Amata and Freddie. She smiled and rallied though, talking to everyone, playing games, doing her very best.

_Be nice, Sunshine. Because if you are mean people will never believe you're nice. So be nice, until it is time to stop being nice_.

She received her Pip-boy and many other well wishes, including a rather morbid poem that she cherished anyway because someone thought to _make_ something for her. She apologized to Mrs. Palmer for losing her gift, but was given a soft pat on her hair and a sly smile and shooed off once more.

Walking down the familiar halls, every twist and turn known, she heard soft voices. Silent as a little shadow she followed them, back pressed against the wall.

“Let this go on about ten more minutes. Then break up the little party. We don't have all day to indulge her.” Almodovar.

“Yes sir.” Rory fled.

She killed her very first thing that day.

(She didn't sleep that night.)

-

Rory was thirteen crying again, which sucked and she wanted nothing more than to stop. She was so tired of being bullied. Every day. Every day seemed exactly the same and she was so done with it all. She sought help and they put her on medication, saying it was an imbalance in her psyche. It wasn't an imbalance, it was a gang of jerks who targeted her specifically. Her breath hitched and she curled into a tighter ball in the corridor. She was hidden on the reactor level, late in the cycle so no one would bother her.

“Hey. Nosebleed.” Well, no one was supposed to bother her.

“Go away Butch. Haven't you done enough damage today?” She spoke into her knees. Suddenly there was a shuffle and warmth pressed against her side. Her head snapped up and she stared at him.

“What,” But he turned to look at her, his lip split where her eye was blackened. (That was a hell of a right hook.) “Oh.” She leaned back and simply rested there. It was odd but comfortable as she scrubbed at her eye and didn't have to speak, didn't have to explain anything.

“I told him to knock it off.” Butch said, staring up at the ceiling, decidedly not looking at her. “I'm the leader of the gang and you ain't the only nosebleed in these halls. I told him to knock it off and we'd go mess with Amata. He said I was going soft. Told him to fu- go screw himself.” Finally he rolled his head to look at her and she saw bruises slowly blooming along his cheek.

She didn't know what to do for a long minute so she stared until he snapped at her, “It ain't 'cause I like ya!” Which had her grinning and then giggling.

“Of course not Butch.” She rested her head against his shoulder, leaning more firmly against his side. For just this minute she'd take comfort, take refuge in his storm. “I can nick some stim paks for us, okay?”

“You're too freaking nice, nosebleed.”

“Gotta be nice Butch. No one else is.”

“Yeah...”

-

“Clinical test subject.” Rory sagged with relief, hand to her heart and a breathless smile on her face.

“Congratulations. I'm sure you'll excel at this.” Mr Brotch was saying, but Rory could only nod and smile as she puttered out of the door. No hurting anyone, no being stuck alone to do menial work. She'd have Dad and her patients and that's all she really needed. Hallelujah. She smiled at Amata and giggled as they wandered down the hallway, arms looped around each other.

-

“You're just gonna make it worse, Nosebleed.”

“Says the one who's nose is bleeding all over my work table. Now hold still punk.” She reached up, fingers gently pressed to either side of Butch's face. He'd gotten into another fight with Wally Mack, and Wally was mean (mean in a way Butch just couldn't contend with).

“Shut up you bi-AH!” He yelped and reeled back, hands clutched over his face and murder in his eyes. Rory only smiled serenely, hands laying in her lap (innocent as you please).

“Be nice to your caretakers.” She wheeled away for a moment to grab gauze to finish cleaning his face. “We determine how gentle _we_ are with how nice _you_ are.” She leaned in only to have him scurry away. “Oh come here you big baby. The worst part is over.”

They were quiet for a moment while she worked, her staring at his broken face, him at her pale one. It was reminiscent of times spent in dark corridors, battered but still miraculously whole.

“Why you always so nice to me, huh? You know I hate you.”

“Yeah? That why you only ask for me to patch you up?” Her sass only grew stronger the more time she spent here. It was a good weapon. That and being smaller than everyone else made it easier to escape and hide.

“Ahh, shut up.” It was half-hearted, more said from habit than with any real heat anymore. She couldn't help but smile. Funny how things changed over time. After another beat of silence came, “I guess you ain't so bad under all that goody-two shoes shit.”

“Aww, thank you Butch. That was almost sweet.”

-

“Lorali, my trauma kit.” Rory flashed from the room at her father's words. They didn't have an actual surgical room in the vault, but the med-bay served all purposes, fatal and not.

She scrubbed her hands up to her elbows and dragged on gloves before returning. She slipped a mask over her face and did the same for Dad when she reached him. She arranged all his tools neatly out on the table next to him.

There had been an accident in the nuclear reactor. Not a leak, thankfully, but some radiation burns after a small misfire. Dad handled the worst of them, having so many more years experience than she, so she took the rest. The slight burns and minor cuts and scrapes. She moved through the med-bay with efficiency, having spent every spare moment she had here, learning everything she could, soaking up knowledge like a sponge.

She smiled and petted, soothed hurts and calmed panic with all the airs and graces of a professional.

“We're so lucky to have you and your dad around. We spent so long without a doctor...” Rory spared a glance, curiosity piqued at such an odd phrasing, until she heard a scoff behind her. She sighed, weary suddenly, and heavy.

“Freaks.” A voice hissed behind her, but she merely shook her head and continued on with her work, patching a small burn, before sending her patient on their way.

“You heard me. You're both freaks, something ain't right about you. Like a damn ghost.”

“Wally, you're going to have to wait your turn. Then you can insult me to your heart's content.” Rory snapped, glaring at him with eyes black in the dim light. He returned the look ten fold, but she wasn't ten anymore, and she wasn't scared at all. She finished what little she had left, delaying as long as her heart would let her before she approached Wally's side slowly. He was very reminiscent of a wounded animal.

A burn spread up his leg, part of his suit nearly melted into the flesh of his thigh. She hummed softly and looked at it, not daring to touch yet.

“I don't want you touching me.” He hissed at her, and she merely spared him a look over her mask.

“Alright. You can sit here until Dad gets done with the major traumas. No pain meds. No care. Just a cold, uncomfortable exam table.” She stripped her gloves off quickly and went to toss her mask.

“Wait- fuck...wait!” She turned to glance over her shoulder. “At least gimme some pain meds. Don't make me suffer you bitch.” Rory raised her eyebrows at him.

“Either I fix your problem, or I leave you be. I will not simply band-aid it and let it fester.” She propped her hands on her hips and glared at him again, waiting with all the patience of a saint. Wally swore colorfully, and she would have blushed had she not been trying to stand up to him.

“Damnit.” He snarled and leaned back, looking away from her.

“I'm assuming that's a 'yes'.” She said dryly.

“Fuck you. Just do what you need to.” Once again she worked in silence, hands scrubbed once more, gloves and mask back in place. She was close as she dared, gaze flicking between the burnt cloth she picked out of his wound and his hands. She didn't trust any of the Tunnel Snakes as far as she could throw them, and damn if Wally hadn't blacked her eyes (and broken her nose, busted her lip, gave her a concussion) on more than one occasion. She thanked god for med-ex and all of it's lovely properties.

“Never thought I'd see the day. Some ghost-pale freak patchin' me up.” Wally mumbled and Rory rolled her eyes.

“I did swear to do no harm...unlike some.” She added the last part under her breath, gently working her way around his injury.

“Hey, fuck your high and mighty-ness. You're no better 'an the rest of us!”

“Quit moving Wally.”

“No! Fuck you! You think you're so damn good! So bright and shiny and perfect.”

“Wally, you're going to hurt yourself.”

“Gonna hurt you if you mess up my leg-”

“That's it.” The needle slid into his arm ridiculously fast, the plunger depressed and pulled out before he could really blink. “Good night Wally. You'll be free to leave when you wake up.” She told him, right as his eyes rolled back in his head and he passed out.

“Wow.” Rory whipped around to see Jonas, arms folded behind her. “That took you a lot longer than I thought it would.” He was teasing, and she felt her shoulders relax out of her ears.

“Jonas, you aren't funny.” She chided, but a smile plucked at her lips. He held up his hands, his own grin splitting his face.

“Right right. Just came by to make sure you're okay. Mr. Mack can be- difficult.”

“ _That's_ an understatement...”

-

Dad was tense. His shoulders tight, the lines around his eyes more pronounced, deeper. A frown tugged at his lips at all hours, and honestly, Rory was worried to death. So she went out of her way to make things easier for him. When she wasn't at the clinic, she was cleaning their home, organizing his files and writing up his half-finished reports. He'd been so distracted lately, still offering care to patients, but his mind was a million miles away.

She'd caught him, more than once, trailing off in the middle of a conversation, expression closing down. She made him dinner that night, steak and eggs, his favorite.

“What did I do to deserve such a wonderful child?” Dad asked, and she smiled brightly and kissed his cheek.

“You're a wonderful dad. Now eat before it gets cold. Cold eggs are disgusting.” He'd only laughed, but dutifully tucked into his meal. She'd joined him a minute later with her own. They sat in companionable silence for a while, the only sound the scrape and clink of silverware. Rory kept sneaking glances at him from under her lashes. He had that far away look again, deep in thought and not with her at all.

“Daddy?” She asked, reaching out and gently touching his hand. His head snapped up but it took a moment for him to focus on her.

“What's up Sunshine?” He managed a smile, a genuine one, and a little knot released in her chest.

“You've been so distracted lately. I was worried.”

“I'm fine honey, really. There's just been more work than usual with the purifier on the fritz. It's fine. I'll be fine once this is fixed.” She raised an eyebrow as Dad smiled softly.

“You just said 'fine' three times in one breath...” He laughed and she smiled, glad to see the tension leaving his face.

“Alright Miss Sassy Britches!” He chuckled and she grinned even harder. For a brief moment she felt like a kid again, carefree and worry-less. He squeezed her hand. “Don't worry Sunshine, everything really will be alright. Has your old man ever let you down before?”

“No daddy, of course not.”

-

Oh god the sun burned her skin. It burned and burned and she screamed as she was swallowed up in blinding light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey nerds. At least I am reliably unreliable concerning updates. I'm trying to write a chapter in advance of releasing one, and since the next chapter is almost done I got impatient. Hey, come bother me on [tumblr!](http://helianthuspetiolaris.tumblr.com) I'm usually lurking there.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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